The Life He Leads
by GeneralStarfox
Summary: Prior to his fourth year, Harry had lead a quiet, solitary life. As a series of remarkable events unfold, his life is irrevocably altered. AU. Re-posted.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello readers.**

 **This is my first attempt at something Harry Potter related, so any comments that would improve the quality of the story are always welcome.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

Harry Potter was sat aboard the Hogwarts Express, his back pressed firmly against the window of his compartment, feeling the movement of the train along his spine. He held his wand in his right palm, freely releasing an array of sparks, his eyes calmly looking onto the colourful display, comfort taken in the simple use of magic after it's absence in his life.

It was in moments like this that the world passed him by; in the simplest expressions of what many, even muggleborns, had began to accept as normal. So often did he spend his days alert to everything that went on, his mind working overtime to never be caught unaware, that it seemed only when he was truly alone could he be calm. Hogwarts, with it's seemingly never-ending corridors and hiding places, would always be home to him.

The sparks, he noticed, were comprised of the primary colours; they rotated in fixed order. The pattern grew curiosity such that he attempted to change the colour of the sparks, hoping that by envisioning another colour, it would become so. His mind, focused and soothed by the simple display of magic, focused purely on a shade of turquoise he remembered seeing on a secondary school student's tie that he'd seen the day before. He closed his eyes, focusing on the tie: it's shade, it's depth, it's shadows.

He opened his eyes, hoping for the colour in his memories to greet him. However, all that he met was the same three primary colours- blue, yellow, red - unmoved, their cycle unbroken. No lighter nor darker, no more or less intense.

That would require further research, thought Harry. His mind raced at the possibilities, with avenues of thought already forming as he considered the problem. The movement of the idea thrilled him. Truly, just being in the magical ambience of the train drove him further than the mundane world ever could. The calm caused by the sparks had disappeared, replaced by a budding excitement, and Harry knew it would not return. However, he knew that such a question would not be solved on the Hogwarts Express, and so instead his mind wandered onto his first order of business as school began again.

Skipping the opening feast.

Ever since his first year, Harry had hated going to the feast. He simply couldn't stand the massive groups of people at these events. They made it unbearable. Even when he attended assemblies in primary school, being bracketed by groups of people made his chest ache. He would spend every moment of the feast in a strong panic, every fibre of his being wanting to be anywhere but there. With every noise that his peers made, he would feel his muscles tense. He couldn't control it.

He knew he couldn't go through that ever again.

Every year since began attending Hogwarts he had attempted to build up the courage to get out of the feast. He had always imagined these grandiose plans, each one more ridiculous than the last, to get out of attending the feast. He thought himself the magical James Bond with enough magical apparatus to fill a Malfoy vault, shimmying through the pipes of the castle. He pretended that his escape from the feast was what swayed Earth from total annihilation, if for only to give himself a feeling a purpose.

During the summer, he had spent most of his time attempting to think of a method to remain undetected. His relatives had seemed to continue ignoring his existence entirely, so he wasn't without free time. Harry had spent considerable time reading material on concealment charms and had practised them quite considerably on the train journey, from as soon as he got on the train at Kings Cross, all the way to just outside Durham. The issue was that he rather lacked any talent in their application. However, after what felt like years, he finally succeeded in a version that didn't actively make him more obvious to the average onlooker.

If he were being truthful, he knew that there really wasn't a need to go to the trouble of organising such a plan. He wasn't a high profile person to begin with at all. He could count the times he'd been the talk of the school on one hand and still have five fingers left and he was rather glad of that too. However, he needed some excitement in his life and this seemed to be the only source of it he was getting.

Through the halls, he could hear a female prefect call that Hogsmeade was only five minutes away. Another voice said that all years should put their uniforms on if they hadn't done so. He deliberated for a moment or two.

This would finally be his chance to start a year at Hogwarts without feeling like the walls were caving in.

* * *

Escaping had been rather easy, Harry had realised, as he made his way through the village of Hogsmeade. It was not like coming to Hogwarts only to immediately leave was common, after all. Truth be told, all of the supervision had been focused on making sure first years didn't get lost, so there really wasn't any thought to be spared over some odd truancy by a fourth year. He didn't even bother with the charm.

All he really had to do was wait until everyone else had left the platform, then quietly make his getaway toward the village. Hagrid's hands were too full with the new set of first years to even spare a glance elsewhere along the platform.

The issue now lied in how he could get back to Hogwarts Castle without notice. He knew he couldn't return immediately, as the ghosts would be patrolling the halls for any wayward first years. He knew then that he would have to entertain himself for a good few hours, his plan being to wait until just before the feast would finish and attempt to fall into the crowd without notice.

He'd never been around the village before, having not had the permission slip signed by his family. The village school trip wasn't particularly interesting to him; especially when visiting it meant he'd have to go with his entire school year. However, as he meandered through the streets, he could truly appreciate the quaint beauty of the small village.

Hogsmeade appeared as a postcard come to life. Every house came seemingly from a Dickens novel, with thatched roofs and piles of firewood outside their front doors. Despite it only being the early evening, there wasn't a person in sight, all no doubt retired to quiet pubs or reading books in front of the hearth. Harry hadn't spent a great deal of time thinking about what life would be like outside of Hogwarts, but he thought it would be wonderful if he could live in a quiet village like this.

He passed shops he'd heard people mention; The Three Broomsticks, a rustic pub that would serve a strange beer, even to students. The local clock-menders - a confusing profession, considering the repairing charm existed. What most tempted him however was the local stationary shop that, from a distance, looked to store even muggle paper; he preferred paper as he could both write with a pen and erase any of his mistakes he made, unlike the innately magical parchment he was required to use.

He decided not to visit the shop though as he didn't intend on anyone noticing that he was in Hogsmeade. He chose instead to sit on a park bench in a quiet corner of the village in an area that was without many of the student traps that filled the rest of the village. He thought of using magic, of perhaps perfecting some of the transfiguration that had piqued his interest towards the end of last year. However, the laws of underage magic were never particularly clear, and he wasn't about to test their limits then. Rather than that, he opened one of the few of the few notebooks he had not filled and worked on just about the only hobby he had beyond magic.

Drawing.

Being the black sheep in his 'family' had led to a rather limited range of activities he could do when he was younger. He knew that doing anything that required any modicum of effort from his relatives would be impossible and so he found that anything he did would have to be self-reliant.

His exposure to art had come from primary school. He would never forget the first time he held the pallet of cheap paint his school had provided for his class to use. He suddenly realised that all of the thoughts in his head, even the ones that felt too jumbled or too dark to properly see, could come _alive_ on a piece of paper. Every beautiful thought he had could be seen and become real by _his_ hands.

Art was one of the few times that he could be free; any tension that he held would be wiped away as he could just _create_.

He had decided upon something simple as he was out of practice, having not really done much in the way of art over the summer. He had thought of perhaps capturing the view of Hogwarts castle from Hogsmeade but decided against it, for Hogwarts was _home_ ; it deserved more attention and thought than what he had available.

No, instead he chose something he found himself always going back to. It was a memory that he'd found himself clinging to. In truth, he didn't even know when it happened or even it was, it was somehow always...there. It was barely even a memory, in truth. It was just a flash. An image.

He closed his eyes. No matter how long it had been, he would always see that snapshot perfectly, the world behind his eyes alight as he saw what would always see, what he had always seen; a slim pale hand, in it was a strikingly pale wand. Then, the hand moved suddenly, twisting and twirling, and a green light like which he had never seen anywhere else appeared, bright and dark and calm and raging all at once. Then, _suddenly_ , nothing. Darkness.

When he was younger, the memory scared him. It didn't make sense - still didn't in fact - he couldn't even comprehend what he saw. Why was someone using a wand? Why was there nothing after the light? Who's hand held the wand?

As he discovered magic, little parts were cleared up. He learnt that with magic, light was rarely just light. He knew, very _very_ well, how incredibly valuable a wand could be in a person's hands, good or bad. However, parts still eluded him.

In time he took comfort in the memory, strange as it was. It seemed to be the only thing that stayed constant in his life. It soothed him, knowing that despite how chaotic his mind felt, that one specific section of it would never change.

He would begin, as he always had, with the fingers. Their movement felt important to Harry and he felt he needed to capture it perfectly. Then, he would form the hand. It was so pale, almost translucent, almost _inhuman_.

However, he would always be caught, the flow of his pencil grinding to a halt, when he began to attempt to draw the spell. He could never quite capture the colour - it had depth in a manner that all other colours didn't. It was truly unique in a manner that colours could never be. In his attempt tonight, he was meticulous. He carefully chose every brush and considered every single motion of his hand. Yet still, he couldn't even come close to capturing what the spell truly was. It angered him, strangely so.

He knew, logically, that the memory was just that. A memory. But he felt, deeply, that it was bigger than that. It felt cataclysmic in a manner that grew beyond even him. His memory felt _grand_.

He had been forming, _creating_ , for so long that he had slipped into his own world. Time passed, the world around him darkening as the sun fell from the sky, making way for the full moon in the night.

His focus was only lost as sound filled his ears. He heard footsteps, loud in Hogsmeade's sleepy silence. A shadow formed from the lamppost near him, lying atop his notebook and distorting it's colours.

"I was going to ask what a boy like you was doing in a place like this, but I got bored waiting for you to realise I was here." the owner of the shadow said, the voice unmistakably feminine.

Harry looked up and saw a sight unlike any that he'd seen before. The girl, too near his age to be a woman yet, was utterly remarkable. She was _change_ personified, chaotic and absolutely enthralling. Her whole being seemed to be magical, moving and changing with a will of its own. As he met her eyes, they changed from green to blue to violet to a twinkling, warm brown. Her hair was flowing as though moved by an unseen wind, framing her heart-shaped face in a violet hue.

Harry could not remember a time he had ever seen something quite so beautiful.

"So, what are ya doing then? It has been a while since I was there, but I do remember you were kinda supposed to go _to_ Hogwarts. It is the opening feast today, after all." she continued, a teasing grin across her face.

Harry froze. His mind literally couldn't form a coherent thought, let alone a response. He'd often found social situations difficult; but it was usually groups that caused him to struggle, not this.

"Ah, so you're the silent type then. Bit annoying, but I think I can get past it. Mum always did say I could talk for England," she said, apparently uninterested in silence. "So, I suppose I'll introduce myself. Name's Tonks. One name, wasn't born with any others. None at all. Parents just wanted to keep it simple, only gave me the one. Quite progressive, really."

'Tonks' spoke in a manner that just made Harry warm. He didn't know whether it was her accent, or the words she spoke or the cadence or how the corners of her mouth picked up when she was thinking of what to say, but it made him just smile.

"Erm...I was born in South London. My favourite colour is pink, but don't tell anyone," she said, winking conspiratorially as she whispered the last sentence. "However, and I feel this may be most important thing about me currently, I'm a junior Auror. So, I'm fairly curious as to what a boy - cute as you may be - is doing out of Hogwarts, alone, at night."

At this, Harry panicked. Any serenity caused by this mysterious stranger had vanished. Gone.

What if she told McGonagall? Or Dumbledore?

He thought about lying, but still no words seemed to com forth.

Taking his silence as reluctance, she pressed further. "I mean, I get teenage rebellion. I do. Professor Sprout could tell you some _stories_. But, why would you miss the Opening feast? You get to see all the little firsties all nervous and that. It's great. So, w'ya here?"

Harry just wanted to get out of here. He desperately wanted to search for a place to run. His clothes felt warm against his neck, a forgotten pencil in his hand gripped like a lifeline.

In his nervousness, Harry stuttered. "I-I was - t-there w-was a guy s-screaming - I-I took t-the wrong t-turning -"

"Hey hey hey, not that big of a deal. Not actually gonna arrest you or anything. Literally just wanted to have a bit of banter," she said, her hands raised in non-aggression. "I feel kinda bad now. You were just sat here, minding your own business and I've ruined your whole _ambience_."

Was it a ploy? Was she just trying to trick him?

The pounding of his heart had now subsided, though he still felt on edge. He didn't know why, but for a reason beyond him, he felt she was being genuine.

"I'm sorry for being a bit of a dick by the way, you just sorta piqued my interest. It's not like patrol in _Hogsmeade_ is particularly fascinating, after all," she continued. "You sat there, drawing like a _nerd_ instead of going to the feast. Who does that? I mean seriously?"

"So, because I've probably ruined your evening and you definitely want me to just get _away_ from me, I'll let you do so. Nice meeting you, quiet artist truant boy."

"Harry is easier." he said, smiling.

She laughed. Truly _laughed_.

"Cute _and_ funny? You must get all the girls," Tonks said, her voice again teasing after an almost absurd length of time. It wasn't that funny. "Goodnight _Harry_."

Harry smiled, before looking at his weather-worn watch. _8:01._ Crap. He was going to be late.

He rushed, hastily collecting all of his luggage and began running toward the 'secret' passage he had once seen the Weasley twins use, sparing a wave to Tonks. It was in his haste, that he had entirely forgotten to pick up his notebook lying on the park bench.

* * *

Harry had managed to get inside the castle without any issue. The passageway that began at Hogsmeade was dark and long and ran under the Herbology greenhouses toward the south-western side of the castle, finishing directly below the Gryffindor tower.

He was cautious, knowing that Filch would be looking to start the year by making someone miserable. He often camped out near his house's tower, knowing that many a Gryffindor had chanced a midnight run to the kitchens or to Hufflepuff dorms nearby. He knew his path, it being a simple one. There were no trick staircases and it was luckily quite a short journey from the exit of the passageway - through what appeared as though it were a rip in the plasterboard of the wall - up a simple set of steps to the tower.

The only stumbling block beyond that would be the password.

Harry thought of attempting to perform a concealment charm, being after all in the magical safe haven of Hogwarts. However, in order for the charm to be even remotely successful, he would need to over-exaggerate the enunciation of the spell and he really didn't want the noise to alert anybody.

So, he was going totally without magic. It reminded him of when he was younger. Whenever his birthday would come around, he would make himself scarce for the afternoon and go to the park near his house. Often he'd just sit, enjoying the quiet summer days away from his relatives. In hindsight, his uncle and aunt must have known he'd left. Maybe they, in some rare act of kindness, allowed him that temporary freedom. They probably just enjoyed having a house that didn't have him in it.

Harry heard light footsteps, making him instantly tense. They sounded as though they were coming from the corridor behind him, which was...impossible. The only way to get to the corridor was either from the entrance Harry had come from - he liked to believe he'd have noticed them - or from the adjoining steps. The steps, known rather comically in 'Hogwarts, a History' as 'the loud steps of loudness'. So, again he'd like to imagine he could've noticed them before then. Therefore, there was only one possibility.

"Pleasant evening, is it not Harry?" asked one Albus Dumbledore. Harry didn't know how he got there and probably never would. The normal rules of magic just didn't tend to apply to the Headmaster, after all.

"Er, yeah. Wonderful, professor." Harry replied, confusion colouring his voice.

"It's nights like this where I'm reminded of my younger years. I fear you wouldn't have entertained my company in those days. I was rather less interesting than I am today," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "I'm glad we've managed to cross paths now, as I don't think we would've had the chance to catch up otherwise."

"Professor, I did intend to go to the opening feast, but I was-"

"I'm sure you were simply taking a toilet break and had accidentally gotten sidetracked, my boy. Or perhaps you had a flash of inspiration and had suddenly thought of the thirteenth use of dragon's blood? I'll likely believe whatever happenstance you've managed to think up. If I'm honest with you Harry, it doesn't matter where you were. I'm rather more curious as to _why_ you were there.

"Now, we could simply leave our conversation here. I could walk back to my office and finalise the preparations for the Triwizard Tournament. You could walk to your dormitory, say _disorder_ to Agatha's portrait, and be on your merry way. Or, you could tell me _why_ didn't come to the opening feast. That's up to you."

Harry thought for a moment. "As I had been saying, I did intend to come however I had to go to the toilet and rather got sidetracked."

"Of course," Dumbledore smiled a half-smile."Very well, my boy. I do look forward to seeing you throughout the year. Your professors had always said you had shown promise; let us hope you get a chance to showcase that."

"Goodnight, Headmaster." said Harry.

"Toodle pip." said Dumbledore, briskly walking away.

They parted ways, Harry walking the short distance up to his dorm. The conversation arose many questions to Harry. However, the day was growing long and those questions would still be there after a night's rest.

Harry met the portrait of the Fat Lady at the top the set of stairs, his apparently heavily footsteps waking her from her rest.

She yawned theatrically, then began. "You do know what time it is, don't you? Honestly the nerve of the youth of today. Its your first day of term, young man. Show some respect."

Harry half-ignored her. He, like every other Gryffindor since 1734, had grown use to her antics. "Can I give you the password?"

She huffed, throwing her arms in the air with all of the grace of a tired toddler. "You think you deserve to go into this dormitory? Back in my day, you'd not get away with that."

"The password?" Harry repeated.

"Fine. Fine," she said. " _What's the password_?" Her voice taking a mocking tone.

"Disorder."

"Have a _lovely_ evening." The Fat Lady said, rolling her eyes and yawning theatrically.

The door opened, showing an empty dorm room. The fire was still going - it being inextinguishable as far as Harry knew - but no-one was sat around it to take in the warmth. Everyone had already made their way up the stairs to bed.

He checked the time on the grandfather clock. _11:38._ Perfect. He might just be able to get away with this.

He walked up the staircase, careful to remember to go up the correct stairs; those befitting a Fourth Year. _That_ would take some getting used to. He thought quickly, quietly casting a silencing spell on to the door of his dormitory and, thankfully, the bedroom was like a crypt, save for the snoring of Dean Thomas, the others having fell into a deep sleep after their huge meal. His stomach twinged at the thought of food. He'd have to wait until tomorrow to eat.

He slipped into his bed, the majority of his luggage already having been moved to there by the house elves. His exhaustion was so great that he nearly forgot to change into his bedclothes. He closed his eyes, not even bothering to take his glasses off, his whole body almost sinking into to the mattress. His mind had switched off totally, truly falling into a deep rest.

* * *

 **There it is. My first chapter.**

 **Again, if you have any comments that would help me improve as a writer, they are always welcome.**

 **Thank you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi everyone.**

 **Second chapter here, hope you enjoy it.**

 **Please review so my writing can improve - thank you to all those that have reviewed the first chapter.**

* * *

Harry awoke to the sound of cannon-fire. He, having grown accustomed to this sort of thing, simply shook the cobwebs off and grabbed his glasses from where they were hanging precariously on the desk drawer.

He sat up to be confronted with the image of Neville Longbottom attempting to wipe soot from the bottom of his robes with one hand, the other occupied with carrying a plant pot; however, the amount of soot seemed almost unworthy of note in comparison to Seamus Finnigan and Ron Weasley, who looked to have gone head first down a Victorian chimney.

"See, I told you! The potion you made isn't powerful enough to damage _Salix Praestantia_!" Neville Longbottom called out. His voice had gotten deeper over the summer, but still far from that of an adult's.

"This is rubbish! I'm not admitting defeat to a plant of all things," Seamus said, far too animated for such an early hour. "If I could convince Lavender that I was a giant leprechaun and she'd get good luck by kissing me, a tree isn't going to be my downfall."

"Look, it's really simple - in all circumstances, plants always win because plants are cool."

"Or not, 'cos they're boring," Ron's voice interjected in-between yawns, having given up trying to clean his robes. "I'm all for a game of 'bombs versus plants'- I am, I promise - it's just that breakfast started 20 minutes ago and if we don't leave now all the bacon will've gone cold."

"Great idea Ron! That way we get to see lover boy with your sister." Seamus said, causing Ron's ears to turn a violent red. The group left the room amidst a steady stream of hassling and cajoling of Ron, leaving Harry alone in the dormitory, a much appreciated solace in his eyes.

Harry took his time getting ready, knowing that the Great hall would be packed with people. He washed his face, before looking into the mirror, and he used the time to take a stock of himself.

Objectively, he looked pretty terrible. He was rake thin and tall, and his skin was pale despite the summer having just passed. His hair was dark and messy and just long enough to be annoying. His face was all angles, sharp edges and strangely defined features.

He had a quick shower, as he realised halfway through that his efforts of procrastination were slightly too effective, and he would've ended up late in getting to his first lesson otherwise. And, knowing his luck, it would no doubt be with Snape. He dried himself quickly, before rushing to the then largely unpopulated Great Hall.

There were only a few teachers left in the hall, and most of them were the heads of the houses handing out the timetables to the students, the rest having already made their way to prepare for the first lessons of the new school year. Yet still, there was a handful of students littered across the hall, looking very tired from the abrupt return to waking up for morning lessons.

Harry quickly found Professor McGonagall, her height and striking emerald robes causing her to stick out like a sore thumb. That, and she was the only person who didn't look as though they were ready to collapse at any moment.

"Mr Potter," she addressed him, her demeanour as stern as ever. "Congratulations on your practical transfiguration mark on the end of year exams - I hope to see you maintain that level of attainment this year, young man."

Harry nodded in response, preferring not to speak. The transfiguration professor handed him his timetable; he scanned the sheet, and quickly realised he had Defence Against The Dark Arts for his first period today. Harry was inwardly thrilled at this, Professor Lupin last year having made it his second favourite area of study.

In his haste and newfound excitement to get to the first lesson of the new year, he skipped breakfast, going against the grumbling of his stomach as he rushed from the Great Hall. He would just have to reconcile that by having a big lunch, he reasoned.

Harry was curious as to who would be his new Defence teacher after Professor Lupin's decision to not return to the post he held last year. It was odd that such a change occurred in the first place, as the professor was universally accepted as a fantastic teacher, even to the extent that the Slytherin's respected him.

Hogwarts was as much of a maze as ever, a fact Harry usually adored, though at that moment the difficulty it caused in getting to lessons was irritating. He questioned why such complexity was required in getting to a lesson, though it was probably the school's way of getting back at him for not being prompt in his preparation.

However, in the end it didn't matter as by the time he made it to his classroom, the new professor had not made it there either. He found a seat in the middle of the mixed Hufflepuff-Gryffindor class away from the others in his year, purposefully choosing not to sit with the group of Gryffindors he shared his dorm with.

As he sat down, he could overhear a conversation between two Hufflepuffs - Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott - as they took their seats in front of him.

"Auntie Amelia said he was the best Auror she'd ever worked with."

"Really? Have you seen his face? He looks like a Psycho!"

"He got those scars from fighting death eaters, Han."

Their conversation stopped, abruptly, as the door at the front of the classroom swung open, slamming against the wall, revealing a grizzled monster of a man. He looked as though a child had clumped together clay in an attempt to form the shape of a human being. He had one good eye and one _very_ good eye that appeared as though it was a creation of magic which whizzed about, surveying the room as though it had a mind of it's own. It found Harry and held his gaze for a moment. Harry found it unnerving.

The man, who Harry assumed was either an axe murderer or his new Defence teacher, stomped as he walked, using a walking stick that looked like an ancient tree stump, and began. "Constant Vigilance!

"My name is Alastor Moody, or Professor Moody in your cases. As you all have no doubt heard, many have taken to calling me Mad-eye." 'Moody' laughed to himself. "You'd be mad as well if you've seen half the stuff I've seen. It's a dangerous world out there kids, and it's not gonna get any safer if we pretend like everything is okay. It's not."

Many students had began to pull out reams of parchment as though to begin to take notes, causing Moody to shake his head, causing a particularly grizzled section of scar tissue to stretch and turn at his neck. "I've looked over your education in defending against yourself the dark forces of this world and I found it sorely lacking in any actual defending."

Harry inwardly smiled at that. It was what he'd come to look forward to in this lesson - the practical use of magic was what he had enjoyed and had grown good at.

"You'll not get by in this world by knowing facts. What good is knowing what the year the concussion charm was invented if you don't know how to react to it?" he paused for a moment, turning to the chalkboard and writing the words 'Test'. "Having said that, _Albus_ feels you must be examined from time to time, so you shall be taking a quiz based on what you _should_ have learned over the summer."

A stack of paper appeared as though from thin air on Moody's desk. He sent them toward each pupil's desk with a flick of his wand. Many of his year mates seemed relieved by the prospect of written work, rather than being put through their paces by the former Auror - Hermione Granger was practically salivating at the chance to take a test.

"You have until the end of the period - any talking and you'll find out _exactly_ why half of Azkaban screams my name at night."

Harry braced himself, retrieving the ink and quill in his bag.

This could be a long morning.

* * *

Harry sat on the Gryffindor table at lunch, sandwiched between two groups of extremely excitable first years - a fact that caused a prickling in between his eyes. However, he was rather more preoccupied with trying to shake out the stiffness in his hand - he felt like his joints had been frozen in ice. If he ever had to re-ink his quill ever again he'd go insane.

Thankfully, Harry had been very curious of the summer reading material, so much so that he'd read it cover to cover a number of times, often in between trying to sketch the trees in the park on the outskirts of Little Whinging. He just wished he'd done wrist exercises to prepare them for the torture they had endured.

Rather more pressing than that, however, was the moment he'd been waiting for had finally arrived. It was momentous. It was like a lunar eclipse and the Aurora Borealis all rolled into one.

He could finally _eat._

Harry Potter's plate was filled - extremely so - with the rich food provided by Hogwarts' kitchens; the time he'd spent hungry made it all the richer. However, his eyes had proved to be bigger than his stomach, and he could not finish the near-mountain of food he'd formed, leaving half a plate left. His hunger was a by-product of not coming to the feast that he didn't foresee - normally he'd attempt to quash his nerves by distracting himself with the food in front of him and though the method he'd used this year was preferable, it did leave him hungrier than he'd felt in previous years.

Harry observed the hall around him. Along the Gryffindor table, he could see Dean Thomas sitting closely with Ginny Weasley, to her brother Ron's ire. The Ravenclaw table adjacent to theirs was more of a library than a dinner hall - the sight reminded him that he needed to visit the school library after Potions later today. The staff table didn't have an empty seat to spare; even Dumbledore himself was there. Harry caught his eye and the Professor gave him a significant look, that Harry ignored, instead focusing on the others around him.

He was suddenly ripped from his people-watching by the sound of an owl landing next to him; the noise startled him. The owl held a rather large, rather square package that looked like it had been wrapped in the dark. Harry thought it odd - it was rare for a package to be delivered at any time other than the morning. What he found more odd, however, was the fact that the owl was looking at him expectantly.

Curious, Harry inspected the package. And, on a particularly untidy section of the wrapped package was written, in a looping script, ' _Harry'_. He thought it odd that out of all the Harry's in the world, the owl had chosen him the intended recipient.

Nonetheless, the bird seemed set on Harry taking the parcel and so, not wishing to draw any more attention than the bizarre happenstance already had, he took the package. Content, the owl stole a sausage off of his plate and flew off into the day's sky.

Hogwarts' lunches lasted for two hours, so Harry decided to go to southern courtyard just behind a corridor of old transfiguration classrooms. He liked it here - it felt as though the transformative magic practised had seeped into the air, imbuing all that breathed it the freedom to change, to transform into whatever they wished they could be.

It also possessed a secondary benefit - that it was largely unpopulated, his only company currently being a rather misanthropic looking student, much older than Harry himself was - thus making it the perfect place to open his rather puzzling gift. He'd thought of giving it to a member of staff for inspection, but dismissed the idea. If it hadn't killed him by then, he doubted it ever would. Wizards were not normally patient people.

He opened the dishevelled parcel and was hit with a strange wave of emotion. First, confusion. Then, realisation. Panic. Gratitude. Confusion again.

It was his art notebook. The art notebook he had _forgotten to pick up yesterday_.

He opened the pages, praying that no harm had come to his work. Thankfully, save for a few upturned corners, it was as he had left it. He turned to the sketch he began last night, half-interested to see what it looked like in the cold light of day. It would often happen to him, especially this memory - upon review, the drawings would be nothing like what he thought he had done at the time.

As he did so, a letter fell out. Most strange, however, was that it was a perfectly mundane piece of A4 plain paper. Harry read it.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I really hope you get the package because if you don't this letter's a bit pointless._

 _I didn't know your last name but owls are basically Merlin so I reckon he'll know who this is supposed to be for. Seriously, how do they know where to go? I get lost going to work..._

 _I decided to use my morning break at work and get this to you. It was no bother really; there's this dick James in the office and I'd rather walk this notebook to you from London than spend five minutes talking to him._

 _I hope you don't mind, but I had a little look through your art before I sent it off._

 _Not bad._

 _Ok, you're pretty good at it. Maybe you're really good. Alright, you're brilliant. Whatever. It's weird that you're that good at creating things - you add these beautiful things to the world, just by your own hands._

 _It's kind of incredible. From being a metamorphmagus I can forget the power of an image - I can change myself into anything I imagine so the effect of how somebody or something looks was sort of lost on me - but not with you. I'm moved by the images you create._

 _I'm not really sure why I sent this letter, it's not like you need to know who gave you this back. I probably seem like a psycho writing this. Feel free to ignore this entirely if I'm acting like a stalker._

 _Anyway, before I become even less cool than I already am, I'll stop writing. I need to get back to work before Bones kills me and I can't right awkward letters if I'm dead, now can I?_

 _Yours truly_

 _Tonks_

And, unbeknownst to Harry, he was smiling from ear to ear.

* * *

The potions classroom seemed, in many ways, to mirror its owner. In every corner were deep shadows hiding God-knows-what. The desks and seats were very evenly structured, however, almost to the point of obsession - the desks were perfectly aligned and perfectly perpendicular to the path in the middle of the classroom that Snape would walk up and down, delivering thinly-veiled insults as he did so. Or, in Harry's case, entirely-unveiled insults.

Harry Potter shared a desk with Tracey Davis. Not a word of greeting had been spoken by either party. They hadn't even made eye contact. Both were perfectly pleased with this arrangement.

Professor Snape stood, his back turned to the class, his hands busy with surveying what appeared to be a form of Monkshood. Harry, like his classmates, knew this to be a game the professor played, to have everything on his terms. The lessons started when Snape wanted, not anyone else.

"I trust you've all had...pleasant holidays," Snape began. "However, the rather more pressing matter concerns the brewing of potions required for the OWLs. The potion we shall begin with today is the Wit-sharpening potion. I'm aware many of the people in this room lack _any_ form of intelligence, so you may find it of use."

"Shame Snape isn't getting us to brew shampoo 'cos there's _somebody_ in this room that would find it of use," muttered Ron Weasley, though it carried to Harry rather clearly across the dungeon, as did Dean's sniggering.

"Thank you Mr Weasley; quite impressive that you've already gained a detention within the first minute of your first potions lesson of the year," replied Snape, causing a burst of giggles from the left side of the classroom. "I expect your attempts on my desk in exactly ninety minutes. Begin."

No words passed between Harry or his partner as they both began preparing the ingredients needed for the potion, Harry starting from the top of the list of components given in 'Magical Drafts and Potions' and Tracey the bottom.

Snape skulked around the room, critiquing beyond what was necessary and almost assuredly for his own amusement.

"Mr Potter, you're still stirring the potion incorrectly," Snape said. How do you stir wrong, Harry inwardly queried. "You've still not managed to inherit your mother's aptitude for Potions I see."

A rush of anger hit Harry as was so often the case in Potions, but he held his composure. Snape had been saying things about his mum and dad for years and Harry hadn't punched him before, and he wasn't going to on that day either.

"I remember your father trying to make this potion and blowing up his cauldron," Snape continued, his tone as vitriolic as ever. " _Moron_ _._ "

Anger was building within Harry. The heat from the flame under his potion caused sweat to bead from his forehead, so he took his glasses and swept the hair from his face.

He looked at the Professor, his green eyes staring into the almost black eyes of the professor. Half a dozen emotions passed through Snape's eyes and he broke eye contact with Harry, immediately walking away to Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini.

 _Strange._

Tracey looked at Harry, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. Harry nodded at her, before returning to inspecting the potion book.

By the time ninety minutes had passed, Harry and Tracey had managed to make a near-replica of the potion shown in the textbook; whether that would be reflected in his grade was another matter entirely.

"Potter, ten inches of parchment on the importance of stirring when performing a potion with non-physical effects by this time next week." Snape said, his eyes not once leaving the papers on his desk.

* * *

The Standard Book of Spells Book One held no reference to the importance of the colours within the Sparks charm. Given it was the first spell in the book for first years, that was to be expected, however. He had scoured through the section of the library concerning magical theory and it seemed that colour was not a massively researched aspect of spellwork.

Whilst it was accepted that spells using intent would have a colour somewhat respondent to the intent of the caster, there were notable exceptions. The _musicallo_ spell which produced noises based upon the will, or more often the emotion, of the user has been discovered to follow the colour spectrum - the higher the pitch, the lighter the colour. Spells considered within the dark arts are often of a darker colour, though again this can vary depending on the damage intended by the user.

It had been accepted magical theory up until the sixteenth century that the brighter the spell, the more powerful the wizard. However, Melchizedek Olivander - Garrick Olivander's many times great-grandfather - had made developments within magical foci and it was discovered that massive spell brightness was simply wasted magical energy from the wand and usually indicated a lack of focus from either the wand or the wizard. The myth that bright spells indicated greater power was still often perpetuated in modern times - it was a generally accepted fact that wizards of the past were more powerful than those today, despite the only reason for thinking that being that the wandmakers of today were far more adept at their craft than their predecessors.

What was odd, however, was that spells either creating or mimicking flames _did_ have an intent-based colouring, rather than what would happen within non-magical environments. Usually what was observed in fire was that the higher the temperature the closer to white a flame would become, which was not the case with magical flame. Fiendfyre burns hotter than any other flame, bar none, and anyone who managed to live through seeing it seemed to suggest that the cursed flames were a golden, red flame. Bluebell flames burn cool enough for lower year students to be taught the spell and yet blue flames _should_ be hotter than red flames.

Harry would have to research this further. He thought that perhaps some experimentation could be done - if only so that he could get any colour he desired from the sparks spell.

A wisened voice spoke from above him, forcing Harry to look up from the array of books around him. "The History Of Magical Theory? I wasn't aware you were interested in Hopinkirk's writing, my boy." Dumbledore said, picking one of the books open on the table.

"I'm trying to understand the meaning behind the colours of spells, sir." Harry replied, his eyes straining as they adjusted from staring at the parchment.

"Interesting. I always did find how spells appear fascinating," Dumbledore said, his voice hinted with nostalgia. "When I was a young lad, I would follow my mother around watching her do the dishes, just looking at the colours that came from her wand. Though, I assume your interest is more cerebral than that?"

Harry nodded. "Spells don't seem to follow any pattern on colour. Some follow your intent,and some don't."

"Magic is never anything but a living, changing thing Harry. It answers to no one but itself; it's part of the reason I love it so. I must say, however, that I've never given it much research. I look forward to hearing any of your findings, Harry," Dumbledore said, as they shared a smile. "However, as much as I enjoy magical theory, that isn't the sole reason for me being here. The _other_ pressing matter is your absence from yesterday's feast."

Harry had a half a brief thought to lie, but couldn't. They shared too much trust for that. "You know what I'm like, Professor. I hate those sorts of things."

"Still, my boy?" Dumbledore asked, looking into Harry's green eyes. "I had hoped you had improved."

"I'm trying Professor, I just tense every time I'm surrounded by so many people I... _panic_. I want to be better. I do. I just struggle with that. I promise I'm trying to be better with it, it's just hard."

"Are you trying, truly? You still seem awfully alone, and I noticed you weren't at dinner today Harry."

"I've had other things on my mind, professor." Harry said, gesturing to the small mountain of books he'd created.

"There are things more important than the words of two-hundred year old men. Trust me, I'm a two-hundred year-old, old man," Dumbledore said, winking. "But please, if only to stop an old man's fretting. Please try and put yourself out there. You're a brilliant student, but brilliant students often get lost if they have no-one to ground them."

"I will. I promise."

"Thank you, my boy," Dumbledore said, a grandfatherly smile once more on his face. "I see so much of James and Lily in you, but yet you are so different. James certainly had no issue with large crowds."

"I heard a lot about Dad in my potions lesson today. Again." Harry said, though his face was alight in a smile from the headmaster's words.

"James and Professor Snape were often adversaries and I can only apologise that your professor has not yet put that to bed. However his methods are, if crude, effective - you did get an O in potions last year after all." Dumbledore said, his face apologetic. Harry resisted the urge to say his grade was in spite of Snape, not due to him.

"I just wish the price for a good potions mark wasn't everyone in the year hearing Snape berate me about what my Dad did." Harry replied.

"I will have words with _Professor_ Snape, Harry."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you for the birthday gift, as well."

Dumbledore looked deeply happy at this. "Of course, my boy. I'm glad to hear that you enjoyed it. It's so very unfair you never had them in your life for very long - they were such very good people."

"They seemed...happy." Harry said, not trusting his voice fully.

"They were. Oh Harry, they were. They made the room come alive when they came into it. They loved each other fiercely - they were made for one another. Anyone would be lucky to have a love half as wonderful as theirs. Even those photographs couldn't do them justice."

Harry thought. How would it feel to love someone that intensely? He thought of his parents. He'd stared at the photo album for a long time, as though he might never be able to do so ever again. He knew he could never meet them in this lifetime, but he wished in that moment that he could.

Harry smiled then, melancholy.

They sat for a while, enjoying the companionable silence.

Dumbledore spoke. "I will leave you to your readings Harry. Have a good evening. But please, do try and meet the people around you. You might find one or two of them good company, my boy."

Harry sat there for a moment, looking around the library. He seemed the only one there save for Madam Pince. Not even Hermione Granger or a particularly fastidious Ravenclaw.

His research could wait until tomorrow. It didn't seem that important.

He had a letter to write.

* * *

 **So, there it is.**

 **Again, please feel free to review.**

 **Thanks.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi everyone.**

 **Sorry for the delay in writing this chapter.**

 **Please continue to review so my writing can improve - thank you to everyone that has reviewed the previous two chapters.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

Hogsmeade sat alone, it's rustic beauty easily seen in the morning light.

Rustic though it may be, it was hardly peaceful. After all, the day marked the first Hogsmeade visit for the students of Hogwarts school. The usually sleepy village was veritably buzzing with life as students swarmed it's shops and pubs. Even the steady stream of rain falling from the heavens couldn't disparage the cooped up teenagers from releasing their tension. The event was a very regular occurrence; so much so that the locals knew that this date would be a most opportune occasion to visit their far-away family members.

Harry Potter's presence, however, was entirely irregular. This would be the first time he had attended the village outing so early in the year- in fact, had it not been for the timely interruption of Albus Dumbledore, it wouldn't have occurred whatsoever. Normally, he would run in the opposite direction from such a busy event. However, Tonks usually didn't tell him that she'd been stationed at the village on weekends, so today was _hardly_ a day of normality.

Harry had sought to avoid the crowds as much as was possible; so much so, that he'd even woken up hours earlier than he usually would on a weekend just to get a carriage to himself. The boy shuffled through the village, keeping very close attention to anyone that was even remotely near him. His whole being was set on edge.

His first visit was to the stationary shop that he'd longed to visit ever since the term started.

You could never have enough paint or pencils, thought Harry.

It also had the added bonus of being almost entirely empty, save for a young shopkeeper with a deeply bored disposition that sighed heavily as she wrote up his order.

He'd wanted to go to The Three Broomsticks, but as he approached the tavern he could see the line to the bar a mile long and thought better of it.

Instead, he visited the Shrieking Shack. Supposedly, it was the most haunted building in Britain. Harry found that highly unlikely - after all, Hogwarts was home to more spirits than Seamus Finnigan's bedroom. He also failed to see how that was an attraction at all - the first memory ever first year would have of Hogwarts is meeting the house ghosts. It wasn't like a lurking ghost was rare, after all.

He was just in the midst of leaving the shack, when he heard the high-pitched voice of Draco Malfoy approaching him.

"Go away, half-breed, important people are here and you're wasting air that you don't deserve." spoke the Malfoy scion, his tone as friendly as ever. He stood, accompanied by two older boys in the year above.

Much like everyone in the same year as Draco, he'd had quite a few run-ins with the pureblood. Harry found that, much the same as every other bully he'd ever come across, they thrived on a response. A reaction. So, he didn't give him one.

His bluster soon faded, replaced with vitriol. "You know, we purebloods of proper breeding are taught about our fellow pureblood families, so you can understand my confusion as to why I'd never met the son of James Potter before I came to Hogwarts. I asked my father about you, you know," spoke Malfoy, feigning nonchalance. "He told me what happened to your parents, what happened to them, how they-"

"That's enough, boy," spoke a voice that Harry couldn't be happier to hear. Tonks walked powerfully toward them, her hair a mousy brown but her eyes an intense swirl of brown and red and blue. Harry caught her eye - she winked. "Junior Auror Tonks - you are aware that hate speech is a punishable offence, Malfoy."

A flash of apprehension went across Malfoy's face, before he smothered it with a smirk. "And? My father could have that changed in an afternoon."

"You'd be in a ministry cell before lunchtime," Tonks responded. "Now, off with the lot of you - before we see how much sway your father truly holds."

Draco soon scampered off, though not before sending a sneer to Harry.

"That was brilliant." said Harry, a small grin across his face.

"I do try, Harry," she said, winking an eye that had finally seemed to settle on Hazel. Her hair had no such stasis however, flowing once again as though moved by a non-existent wind. "Everything alright?"

"Definitely." said Harry, Tonks' presence calming him. They'd exchanged a number of letters throughout the time since it was they last spoke in person, not too far from where it was they then stood - those letters would often prove to be the highlight of his week.

A silence passed through them, both content to enjoy each other's presence.

The Auror was the first to break the silence. "It's quite weird talking to you face to face, isn't it?" a laugh accompanied that, relieving the tension between Harry's shoulder blades. "I'd ask you how school was or if you'd drawn anything recently, but I already know."

"I prefer seeing you in person, though." said Harry, his face reddening slightly as he spoke.

Tonks laughed at that. "Harry, you charmer - you must have to beat off the women with a stick." she said, causing Harry's face to go a _bright_ red.

"N-no I just m-meant t-that I'm not that good at w-writing letters, is all." he said, his voice awkward and weak even to his own ears. Tonks _really_ laughed at that, her whole body encompassed in the action.

"No, no Harry it doesn't matter - I just like watching you blush if I'm honest. It's like you've never talked to a girl before," she said. "Wanna have a walk around the village?"

He nodded, following her as they began walking a path through the trees on the edge of Hogsmeade. "T-that'd be because I-I haven't."

"C'mon, you're pulling my leg right?" Tonks asked, seemingly perplexed. Harry looked at the path they walked. "Well I'm offended - I thought it was my awe-inspiring beauty that robbed you of your ability to speak."

Harry wanted to argue the point, but he could hear the humour in her voice and he didn't trust his. Tonks continued.

"But it's quite strange, you know; You're not exactly Snape to look at, if you know what I mean," she said, winking as she spoke. However, it seemed walking, talking and winking were too much for her brain to compute all at once, as she tripped - seemingly on nothing - and would have fallen to the floor if not for Harry reflexively catching her. "Strong, too."

"T-there's not r-really any interest on the other end." Harry said as he helped her to stand.

Tonks pondered for a time, a taping her chin with her finger in a gesture that looked far too serious for her jovial face. "I find that hard to believe. I mean you're not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger, but I'm sure you'd get some bookworms knickers in a twist."

It seemed like Harry would have to get used to resembling an apple when he was with Tonks.

"Besides," Tonks continued, "You've got me now - You'll be a regular Don Jon in no time."

Harry didn't really care much for that idea, but it was _Tonks'_ idea.

"Why would we do that? A-aren't you working?"

Tonks waved her hand dismissively. "That's hardly important - I'm supposed to be stationed near the Shrieking Shack and nothing ever happens there," she said, pointing them back toward the village. "And, we're doing this because it is my civic duty to help wherever I can and nothing is gonna help you more than some time alone in a broom closet with a pretty young blonde witch."

Harry really didn't have a response to that - he could hardly tell her that the first girl to spark his interest didn't really have blonde hair. Well. She didn't _always_ have blonde hair.

They headed to The Three Broomsticks which had thankfully thinned out from before, though it was by no means empty. Tonks ordered two Butterbeers, for herself, and a pumpkin juice for him, talking briefly to the owner as she did so.

"Look, Harry, you've not been corrupted yet - so that job, rather _fortunately_ , falls to me," Tonks said as she sat down. Harry took a sip of the drink, finding it far too sweet. "You're lovely, but girls don't like lovely. Girls your age want a bit of edge. They're easy."

"Are you sure?" he asked, already feeling a small headache forming at the front of his head from the sugar.

"As a former teenage girl, I'm bloody _sure,_ " she said, almost inhaling the Butterbeer in her fervour. "All you've gotta be is confident - no one knows what they're doing, so if you blag like you do, you're golden.

"Look at those two over there," she said, pointing toward a couple in a booth. The girl - Su Li, Harry recalled - was practically on the boy's lap. "That girl is practically falling arse backwards for that bloke, but what is he doing?"

"Looking at you?" Harry responded.

"Looking at _me,_ " Tonks confirmed. "She can't get enough of him, and he's looking at my tits like they hold the meaning of life. The girls your age _want_ to chase you. So, _let them chase_."

"But why would I do that? Isn't the point of a relationship to be honest and to trust one another?" asked Harry.

The Auror give him a strange look that was halfway between pity and fondness. "We're not talking about soul-mates and marriage here, Harry. We're trying to get you a few snogs for you to talk about with the lads so you're one of the cool kids."

Harry didn't think it prudent to tell her that he didn't really have any 'lads' to tell, nor had he ever in his life been anything that was even close to cool.

"Seems a bit empty, though." Harry almost whispered, his hand now fingering his wand, inspecting its condition.

Tonks laughed, a hint of bafflement present. "You'll not be complaining when you're coping a feel of a lucky witch," she said, calling for another drink. "You sound like a girl, Harry. Most blokes your age are hardly looking for _romance_."

Harry supposed that's what happened when you don't have a Dad to teach you about girls, though he didn't tell her that.

"Well, you know, I don't really want to just kiss someone," Harry said, just loudly enough for Tonks to hear. "So, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not do this."

Tonks' eyes softened at this. "Look, Harry, it's all a part of the teenage experience. I learned a lot more in the broom closet near the astronomy tower than I ever did _in_ the astronomy tower. It's character building. And I promise that if you let me help you with this, you'll be better off in the long run."

Harry considered his options. More than likely, it didn't matter what he did. Girls weren't going to suddenly become interested in someone like him, so nothing would change. _However_ , saying yes meant he'd spend more time with Tonks.

Not really that hard a choice, all things considered.

"Okay."

* * *

Harry had been kept busy the first few weeks of term by his own curiosity. He'd often spend any free periods he had in a deserted classroom - a classroom Professor Lupin occasionally used last year when dealing with creatures that were particularly volatile - on the fifth floor. There, he would indulge his academic curiosities, mainly those concerning transfiguration.

He'd shown a strange aptitude for the subject. In his first year, it'd been the first comfort in this strange world that he had been brought into. He progressed far more quickly than others - he could transfigure faster and with greater focus than even Padma Patil and Hermione Granger.

However, he'd had a growing interest specifically within the transfiguration of the elements, lately. The conjuration and alteration of flame, water, earth and air. Never before this did he feel more closely to the very essence of magic. It wasn't as manufactured as the work they were to do in lessons. It felt primal. It felt _arcane_.

He lifted his wand, feeling the tension that usually accompanied him at every step melt away. He drew upon the immense focus required as he cast his first spell, a strange water conjuration he'd found in his third year.

" _Vesi."_

The result was immense. A swirling vortex of water surrounded Harry, creating a sequence of beautiful patterns. Twisting ropes of pure water formed from his wand, accompanied with jets of water arcing in every direction The water twisted with his every breath, pulsing, as though an extension of his very being. The magic thrummed, the whole room filling with Harry's power. Harry fought with the magic he had brought into being, wrestling to control it. He raised his hands, causing the water to follow, a wall of water rising from the ground to the ceiling surrounding Harry. His wand arm rotated, a causing a tide to flow through the wall, the water rising and falling, swelling and subsiding with his every movement.

Harry drew his thoughts together once more, forcing more of his power into the spell. By now, the entire room was contained within this typhoon of magical water. To complete this spell, he chose a single point on the wall furthest from him. He drew his breath.

" _Uhendus."_

At once, a wild corkscrew flew from the tip of his wand, sending a powerful torrent of water toward the wall. Wave after wave sent perfectly toward the target. The sight was mesmerising.

Harry held his arm up until his muscles gave out from the strain, sending him falling to his knees. He had luckily thought to seal the room before he began, otherwise he'd have flooded the fifth floor. Harry's breath was ragged, his chest heaving as his body suffered the strain of the magic he had just cast.

The spell was created by Scandinavian wizards looking for a method to destroy their opposition's forces without leaving lasting damage like fire would do. The corkscrew that is ensued was so cataclysmic that it was described by onlookers as 'a torrent of godly wrath'.

However, it had the unfortunate affect of causing exhaustion within its users, which rendered the spell completely useless as often warrior parties had only one or two wizards to begin with. So, it fell out of use entirely.

When Harry could finally focus beyond his body screaming its exhaustion, he noted that he had been up to his waist in water. It took him three attempts for his hands to stop shaking enough to cast a vanishing charm upon the water, drying him and rendering the room exactly as he found it.

He'd thought of attempting other spells, however he decided that might be his downfall.

"Your talent is always impressive, even to my old eyes." spoke the wizened voice of Professor Dumbledore. Harry thought he must've appeared as he was vanishing the water as the hem of his robes was soaking wet.

Harry attempted to respond, but speech was still too strenuous for his heaving lungs. He needed to find a method of stopping this exhaustion, he thought.

"Your father boasted a similar talent, though I fear he used it to do little more than just that. Boast," continued the Headmaster, wordlessly conjuring a soft chair and sinking into it. "I hadn't seen the northern magics performed for more than a hundred years - it was refreshing."

"Nor-northern m-magics, Sir?" Harry asked wearily, his voice not strong enough to speak above a whisper.

"Yes, my boy. Many a wise old warlock has pondered this school of wizardry and its power; I have my own personal theory, as a self-proclaimed wise man, if you would wish to hear it?" Dumbledore spoke, his voice as calming as ever. Harry nodded, his bright green eyes holding a look of fascination.

"Throughout magical history, we humans have sought to control magic - I am not immune to this Harry, far from it. We've forced it to bend into shapes that it ought not to fit. In certain circumstances, I feel we are going against the very nature of magic - that being _nature,_ " Dumbledore said. Harry was in awe of the man's mind in times like this. "The northern magics are archaic and, though often not neat, close to the true essence of magic. They were designed to use what their practitioners called 'the soul of magic'. They are wild, sometimes nigh uncontrollable spells that require the sharpest focus of you, my boy. Do take heed of that, if nothing else."

"But sir, that doesn't explain what they are." Harry said, finally trusting his voice.

"Very true, Mr Potter. So often I talk in circles that I tend to circumnavigate the point," said the Headmaster, winking conspiratorially. "In truth, any warlock that seeks their use holds their own personal opinion in what they are; I never used them - by the time I had discovered their existence, in my arrogance I thought myself powerful enough to never need their use, so ignored the school in favour of incantations of my own design.

"Purely factually, they are the last vestiges of a time before the Roman system of magic grew entirely prevalent. The Roman empire conquered almost all of Europe, but their magic of rigour and Arithmancy grew to almost the entire world. It was more efficient and, rather plainly, more useful than the folk-magicks that most of Europe employed with items such as staves. This was true, save for one place - Scandinavia. There, they did not seek to force magic to perform the jobs that they themselves were too lazy to do. They allowed magic to _live_. That is where the truly arcane magics are found, my boy."

"Sir, if this is true, how come more dark wizards haven't used these spells?" Harry asked.

"Good question, my boy. It's a multi-faceted issue, you must understand," Dumbledore said, removing his glasses to clean a speck of dust from their lenses. "They require a great deal of time to understand; many will go their entire lives, never understanding them whatsoever. They are not destructive forces either, my boy. Magic is a _life-_ force. That is why the dark arts are so _perverse_ , Harry. They destroy the very _soul_ of magic. The study of northern magic is not one that can be done halfheartedly. It is unlike any other magic found on this earth.

"Now, Harry, you've exhausted yourself today. Until you grow more accustomed to such heavy magical use, It would be wise to be more careful with the spells you attempt. Would you like a hand getting to your dormitory?"

"I think I'll be okay." replied Harry almost instantly.

Without realising it, Dumbledore had sparked a fire inside of Harry Potter.

* * *

Harry sat in the library, his head buried into a tome concerning the Triwizard Tournament. The subject, mentioned by the Headmaster in passing, had taken space in Harry's thoughts for much of his free time. The word seemed to buzz around the school in recent times. Everyone couldn't seem to _stop_ talking about it.

He'd discovered that the tournament had began in Durmstrang following the creation of an impartial decider by a German craftsmen who's name had unfortunately been lost to history - that being the Goblet of Fire, though those two pieces of information were rather unhelpfully in two different books. The tournament was originally devised as a method of ridding what is modern day central Romania of a nest of dragons; they had so many would-be dragon slayers at the time that they needed a way of choosing the best possible applicant - and to ensure that half of Europe's wizarding population wasn't culled in the process. It was until some decades after that the three premier wizarding institutes used the tournament as a means to create cohesion within the magical world.

Harry found though that despite his best efforts, his eyes would rarely travel beyond a page or two before his mind had wandered elsewhere; the Headmaster's words had been an weighing on him. You could hardly take the words of Albus Dumbledore lightly, after all. He'd often take walks along the second floor corridor in an attempt to regain focus; however he'd find himself, more often than not, in the trophy room, his thoughts entirely elsewhere.

It was on one of these walks he'd overheard that the students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would arrive at the castle within the next week - the news sending a wave of trepidation through him.

From what he had been able to gather, the tournament was a harbinger of bad times. It seemed that whenever the tournament reared its head, death and chaos would follow. There had never been a tournament without a major injury. It was nigh inescapable and it seemed any attempt to stop or stem the danger only caused the issue to be aggravated further.

Worse still, it had Neville Longbottom written all over it.

It seemed like whenever any calamity hit the school, it would be connected to Neville. It was like fate had decided that he would be its perpetual victim. Just last year, it had come through the rumour mill that Neville faced down 100 dementors. There hadn't been a known use of the Patronus charm by a 13 year old _ever_. He was a magnet for the extraordinary. And, the tournament was the definition of extraordinary.

Harry had found Neville affable whenever they'd crossed paths; by his reckoning, Neville was as perplexed by his constant connection to danger as everyone else - though he accepted it rather easily.

"Ten minutes to curfew, students," said Madam Pince, with all the warmth of a dementor.

Harry knew he couldn't go to the Gryffindor dormitories - the Prefects wouldn't call for bed for another few hours, so the common room be packed to the rafters. Instead, he meandered through the castle, searching for the empty classroom he regularly occupied.

The labyrinth of the castle brought him down through corridor after corridor, though it would somehow always bring him back toward to the staircase that led to Harry's dormitories. Every time he attempted to go to the second or third floor, the castle itself would force him back toward the first. He'd even attempted to go toward the astronomy tower, but even that brought Harry to the same staircase.

It puzzled the boy. After all, it would seem that students would get lost all the time. From what he'd heard, half of Neville's adventures began with him turning into the wrong corridor and ending up down the rabbit hole with Alice and the Mad Hatter. So, why on earth did the castle want him to go to his dormitory so desperately?

Harry's curiosity got the better of him as he followed the whims of the castle to the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Password, young wizard?" she asked.

"Candidate."

"Very well."

The portrait swung open, revealing the ever present warm red and yellow decor. However, the dull roar that was almost ever present during the evening in the Gryffindor Tower - the one that made Harry's chest ache - was nowhere to be heard. Perplexed, Harry walked into the common room.

Harry couldn't see a single person throughout the entire room.

Why would the castle want him to see this?

Harry sat upon an armchair which sat adjacent from a portrait of Oraclitus Spheer - or so he'd been told by a particularly loquacious redheaded prefect in his first year. Harry could hear a muffled conversation, though its source was most likely to be from the second year dormitories nearest to him.

Perhaps, thought Harry, he was wrong. Maybe he had walked to his dormitory of his own accord.

Distractedly, Harry studied the portrait. Like every other magical portrait he'd come across, it seemed to be without imperfection; the paint was perfectly applied, the image appearing perfectly smooth, as though it was a muggle's printed picture. This particular portrait was a Renaissance piece, though that wasn't uncommon - many wizards had chosen to be immortalised in this style.

Harry had at one stage been fascinated with magical art. During his second year, he'd spent a great deal of his free time learning the charms that were involved. He'd even sent a letter to Professor Flitwick for help on the matter; to which the diminutive charms master had given him a list of books on the topic and an open invitation to his office should he require it - the former was of great use, the latter had yet to be used.

The issue that plagued Harry was what had fascinated him to begin with. The perfection of it all. The charms, once mastered, were always mastered. Every piece was exactly as the artist could picture. But it was just that, a picture. The lack of human touch made the art lose its soul.

Harry's thoughts were lost as he once again noticed that the conversation that he'd heard before hadn't quietened. Harry stood up and began pacing about the room. Where on earth was the noise coming from?

The sound was far too near to be in any of the dormitories, yet no one could be seen. It was baffling.

In fact, Harry was just about to scurry up to his bed, when he saw an odd movement in the inextinguishable fire. He walked toward it, however his progress was halted by something. Something invisible.

That something was Neville Longbottom.

The boy gave out a yelp at being walked into. Harry, like everyone else that lived with Neville, knew about his invisibility cloak. He could almost sigh in frustration. How didn't he realise it was Neville!

"Harry, what are you doing up, mate?" the boy asked, his eyes shifting as his body sat in front of the fire. Harry knew he was hiding something.

"I think the better question is - why are you crouched at the fire, Neville?" Harry responded.

At this, Neville stood up, taking his wand from his holster. "Look, Harry, you're a good bloke and I'm sorry, but you can't know about this."

Harry was entirely confused. Neville acted quickly, his hand a blur as he cast a lightning fast Petrificus Totalus. Fortunately, Harry was a shade faster, conjuring a simple iron shield causing the spell to be reflected back to the other boy. Neville, not expecting Harry to react or for him to use a physical shield, didn't have time to respond with a spell so jumped out the path of the spell, causing the blue spell to strike a nearby ottoman.

"Neville what are you doing?" Harry asked, confusion colouring his face. "This is the common room."

Neville didn't reply, but his eyes flashed with regret as to what he was doing. Rather, he cast a spell silently, a powerful stunning charm that whistled in the air as it came toward him. Through total luck, Neville's aim was off, allowing Harry to cast a freezing charm at Neville, sending him crumpling to the floor. Defeat was etched into his face.

"Now, what were you doing at the fire?" Harry asked, his voice ragged.

"He was talking to me, Harry Potter."

And, in that moment, Harry first locked eyes with one Sirius Black.

* * *

 **So, there's the third chapter.**

 **Please let me know what you thought of it and review - your comments really do help.**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, again.**

 **Here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy.**

 **Please review so that I can improve my writing - I'm incredibly grateful for all the reviews so far, they mean a lot.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

Harry Potter stood in shock at the man before him.

Sirius Black.

Murderer.

He'd killed muggles for sport. He killed innocent people for his own amusement. He even tried to kill students last year.

How could Neville even talk to this man?

A flash of hatred coursed through Harry - a mass of anger from deep inside him swelled, his whole body filled with rage. He wanted vengeance. He wanted answers.

"I can see in your eyes that you hate me - I understand Harry, I really do. If I was in your position I'd feel exactly the same. I'd truly hoped we'd meet in different circumstances." Sirius spoke, his voice pleading through the fire. A strange look overtook Black. "You look so much like James."

Harry saw red. "Don't you dare use his name!" he shouted, his wand leveled at the other man. "My father was a great man - you don't have the right to talk about him!"

"Your father was my best friend once upon a time, Harry." said Sirius.

"No he wasn't! You're lying!" said Harry, breathing heavily.

"I'm telling the truth, Harry," spoke Sirius, maintaining composure despite Harry's rage. "Please, give me one chance to explain my side of the story. After that, you can run and tell Dumbledore if you wish. I'll even stay on the floo while you get him."

"One chance." Harry said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Thank you, Harry," Sirius said. "Now, you must realise, times were dark. Voldemort had set a black cloud all over us all. We were all afraid, Harry."

"And because you were afraid, killing defenseless muggles is okay?" Harry asked, his anger not stemmed.

"No, Harry, I don't. I've never, not once, ever, killed a muggle."

"Yet you hold _his_ mark, Black."

Sirius Black's head disappeared from the fire, replaced by two arms. He pulled his left, then right, sleeve up to show clear, pale skin empty of magical ink. Not a mark in sight.

Confusion filled Harry. How could this be possible? Every eyewitness account of Black had said that he bore the mark on his arm. Moreover, the mark couldn't be glamoured or covered up in any way - even muggle makeup didn't stay upon the mark.

"I see you're confused by this, Harry," said Sirius, his head once again visible in the embers of the fire. "It seems Pettigrew's lie had everyone fooled."

"Pettigrew? Peter Pettigrew? You killed him, didn't you?" Harry asked, his minding unraveling more by the second.

Sirius scoffed at the accusation. "No - The rat framed me. I was his friend and he _betrayed_ me. He betrayed us all. _Peter_ sold his friend down the river so old Voldemort would spare him. We'd used the Fidellius Charm to protect ourselves - it was the one charm that can't be broken magically. All you needed was _trust_. We thought we were safe."

"We? Who's we?"

"The Order. The one group that _stood up_ to Voldemort," said Sirius Black, a storm building in his voice. "Your parent's house was under the charm. The thing about the Fidellius was that it required a _secret keeper_. Think of the charm as a chain - the keeper allowed new links to be placed on the chain."

"And you chose Pettigrew?" Harry asked.

"We did. We all _trusted_ him. Me, Remus and your father had been friends with him for our whole lives. The rest of the order had wanted me to be the secret keeper, me and your father were closer than anyone, but I knew I was too obvious - I'd made my opinion on the _dark_ _lord_ too public. The rat was a relative unknown. He was the perfect candidate. He was quiet. He kept his mouth shut," Sirius said, melancholy across his face. "He _used_ to keep his mouth shut. Your mother was _the_ charms prodigy, so when it came time for her to perform the spell, the rat and I switched places."

Harry could hear the truth in his words. In the anger burning in his voice. A lump had built in his throat, but he needed to know more. "What happened?"

"I'm sorry Harry."

"Sirius, what happened?" asked Harry once more, desperation in his every word.

"It was Halloween. We'd caught wind of an attack on the Longbottom's estate. There weren't that many of us in the Order, so we'd had to send nearly everyone to protect Alice and Frank. James and Lily were left alone taking care of you," Sirius said, his voice catching on every word. "By the time we'd found that the charm had fallen, it was too late. The death eaters had already been and gone. I'm so sorry Harry."

Harry felt numb.

He'd known that his parents had been murdered - Dumbledore had told him that his parents had died fighting against Voldemort - but he didn't know it was like this. He'd not wanted to know about their death; he'd much prefer to focus on their life. Their love. Their minds.

"I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you this, Harry," said Sirius. Harry's green eyes, usually so intense, looked lost. "I couldn't let the Rat escape. Not after that. Not after what he did to James and Lily - what he allowed to happen. He played me like a fool. He told me of his plan - how everyone would blame me, how everyone would suspect a _Black_ to follow Voldemort. By the time I had my wits about me, I was already in the hands of the Aurors - the rat had blown up a street and scampered off into hiding."

"It's true what he's saying, Harry." Neville spoke, finally having awoken from the after-effects of the freezing charm. "Last year when he started 'targeting' Hogwarts, he was really going after Pettigrew. You know Scabbers, Ron's rat? You know how it was missing a toe?"

Harry nodded, though he looked in a daze. Neville continued. "And, after what happened to Pettigrew, what was the only thing they found?"

"Ron Weasley's rat was Peter Pettigrew?" queried Harry, weary at yet another revelation.

"We'd all became animagi together at Hogwarts. I could spot the rat from a mile away," Sirius explained. "One of the guards at Azkaban was reading the Prophet and one day I saw the Weasleys on the cover. I saw the rat on the boy's shoulder - and I just _knew_ I had to get out. If the rest of the world wouldn't deliver justice to the rat, I would."

"That's where I met him." Said Neville.

Sirius nodded. "By the time I'd gotten to Britain, I was totally blinded by my obsession. I _needed_ to find the rat and punish him for what he'd done. I was stupid. The first time I locked eyes with Pettigrew, I went berserk. I took Weasley, Neville and the rat and dragged them out to the Forbidden Forest. However, I had made a _slight_ oversight - that being the horde of dementors trying to steal my soul -"

"-And he'd have been kissed if it wasn't for me." finished Neville, puffing his chest out jokingly.

At the mention of Dementors, Harry heard an all too familiar screaming reverberating in his mind. A silence followed, allowing Harry to consider what had happened.

"Whilst Neville was busy saving our lives, Pettigrew became a rat once more, running off into the night. I had no idea what to do, so I ran away to France, where I am now. French and English aurors have a _frosty_ relationship, so I knew there'd be less chance of me getting caught here."

His world had become a great deal clearer, yet also a great deal stranger very recently. He looked into the fire, to the man that only a few hours ago had been nothing but a murderer in his eyes.

"Professor Lupin was friends with my dad?" he asked finally. Sirius laughed, his eyes losing the edge that they had held.

"We all were." Sirius replied, a kind smile upon his face that took years off of him.

"Then how is it that he never spoke to me about him?" Harry asked. "And how is it that it's only now that you've reached out to me? And only by accident?"

"Because when I met you for the first time, I wanted to be able to offer you a home, or a family, or a security that I can't offer you now. I didn't want to offer you something, in knowing me, that I can't give you," said Sirius, apologetic. "With Remus, it's very difficult. He's a reclusive man. He believes himself a burden upon everyone - when he saw that you were safe without him, he thought he might ruin your life by just simply being there." Said Sirius, a quiet sympathy in his dark eyes. "I can only apologise for not reaching to you earlier. I'd been running for so long and this conversation wasn't one I could have via _owl_ , really. I'd planned to come and find you when I was finally free, and everything was over. I promise that. I wished our meeting was more opportune than this."

Harry nodded, understanding. You could hardly expect a man who you'd never met to risk his life to have a conversation, even if he was your dad's best friend.

"Does Dumbledore know about you?" Harry asked.

"Dumbledore knows _all_ , Harry," Sirius said. "Nothing happens at Hogwarts without him knowing about it. I had hoped he'd be able to help my case legally, but he had made it quite clear that without any evidence I'd be back where I started, and I know that his position in our world is _invaluable_."

Harry's head was swimming. How had Dumbledore known about this since the end of last term and not told him?

He'd have to talk to the Headmaster. The professor was the only connection, up until this evening, that he'd had to his parents and he couldn't believe that they hadn't talked about this. That he hadn't _told him._

Neville looked at his watch then abruptly stood up. "I'm going to go to bed - the lads will be wondering where I am. Talk soon, Harry."

Harry thought've joining him, but he'd didn't know when he'd get this sort of opportunity ever again.

"I have to say Harry, you look exactly like your father - except for the eyes, of course," Sirius said. Harry smiled - he'd heard it before, but it was always comforting to hear nonetheless.

"Could you tell me about them please?" Harry said, suddenly feeling the child he suppose he still was.

"I fear James wouldn't be happy about anything I tell you," said Sirius, laughing in a manner that took years off of his face. "He was a bit of a prick. A berk. Blind. Stupid. Arrogant. Resilient to the point of idiocy. Brilliant at Transfiguration. Kind. Brave. The man who helped me when I needed him most. My brother."

Despite what he'd learned that evening, Harry Potter couldn't stop smiling.

Sirius continued. "I'd asked Neville about you, you know," he said. "I'd expected to hear wild stories about James Potter's son. He didn't really know anything about you. How can someone who'd spent 3 years sleeping in the same room as you know barely anything about you?"

Harry was entirely speechless. "I don't know. I just feel like I can't relate to anyone in my year. I feel so lost whenever I'm around other people."

Sympathy crossed Sirius' features. "I think I understand Harry. Believe me, my mum and dad were hardly in the running for parents of the year - I did run away from them, after all. When I came to Hogwarts, I had no idea what I was doing and I was worried about making friends. Then, some daft first year introduced themselves to me and it got a lot easier."

"It's not first year Sirius, and I think I'm a bit beyond that now."

"You are indeed, Harry. It's quite clear we're very different people. And far be it from me, a man that you've known for less than a day, to tell you what to do. However, from a man that cares for you, I found that all it takes is one connection and the world stops feeling so bewildering. It may not be your experience, but it has been mine."

"Thank you, Sirius," Harry said after a moments pause. "If I could ask, why were you talking to Neville tonight?"

"He didn't have anyone else he felt would understand, so he came to me. Many rumours are swirling around about the tournament being hosted at Hogwarts, Harry. Should any of these rumours be true, the consequences may ensnare Neville - as everything seems to. He'd rather it didn't."

Harry nodded. If he were Neville, he'd want the virtue of some quiet every once in a while too.

"Now, I fear we've been talking too long already - I've already put enough effort into getting out of Azkaban, I'd rather I didn't go back to Azkaban because Frankie-First-Year walked in on our conversation," Sirius continued. "Listen Harry, I'm currently in an unplottable location so you wont be able to reach me through normal owls and the like. However, I have an owl that I've charmed so that it can reach me. You can use it to talk to me if you have anything more you'd like to know. You shouldn't have to look too hard, she's… _distinctive_."

They said their goodbyes and Harry went to bed, laying on top of the covers for a while.

He thought on Sirius Black. There'd been talk of him all of last year, of what he'd done and what he would do when he returned to his master. Yet, all that fear had been for naught. Why was the wizarding world like this? It seemed that for all their powers and their virtues, they were truly no less easy to mislead than children. So much of the knowledge within the world was held in the tight grip of a select few.

Harry looked forward to his next conversation with Sirius Black. Before today, his grasp on his parents felt incredibly weak. Yet with Sirius now, he could finally discover who his parents truly were. Not the idealised version that he'd been given. Or the poisoned one that Snape had told him of. He wished simply to know the man and woman.

Neville Longbottom however had become even more peculiar after today. Harry had the grace to realise that it was chance, rather than talent, that had given him the upper hand when they'd crossed wands. However, he'd hoped that the situation wouldn't develop at all - that Longbottom would've told him about _his father's best friend's_ innocence and not had to trade spells to begin with. Before today, he had no idea how Neville and he could ever see eye to eye. After all, Longbottom had friends that loved, and a Grandmother that loved him too. Today had changed his opinion.

He would talk to Neville, he decided. If only to see if there was anything he could do to repay him for saving Sirius' life.

Harry closed his eyes, as almost immediately sleep overtook him. It was a dream he'd had many times before, though tonight the green light seemed to take an altogether new shade, one that he had never seen before.

* * *

Even inside such an incredibly magical castle, the Headmaster's Office felt rather peculiar. The room was entirely circular in shape, its walls covered to the last inch with tome after tome of no doubt esoteric, yet wonderful magic. The prior occupants of the room had been known to leave the office devoid of any personal touches, likely in an attempt to create an aura of authority around them. Albus Dumbledore had no such histrionics however - every shelf, desk and chair seemed to hold within them the essence of the great sorcerer.

Harry Potter, however, wasn't interested in the inner workings of a room that had, at one time or another, played host to every great wizard of the past millennium. He'd walked into the room without a second thought of what surrounded him - after all, this wasn't the first time he'd been inside the office. He'd even failed to notice that the usually stalwart gargoyles that guarded the room's entrance had allowed him passage without giving the password.

"Your visit is, whilst a welcome occasion, unexpected Harry," spoke Dumbledore, his voice emanating from a small alcove containing what Harry had read was a Pensieve. "In truth, I'm rather glad for your appearance. I'd _long_ since grown tired of reading ministry reports."

"Why didn't you tell me about Sirius Black?" asked Harry, ignoring the Headmaster's words. A rare look of surprise came upon Dumbledore's face. Try as he might to stay calm, anger had began to build within Harry.

In a weary gesture, Dumbledore removed his thin spectacles from his face, his shoulders slumping slightly. "So you have talked to Sirius, I take it?" Harry nodded as the professor walked over to his desk. "I also take that you've learned of his innocence, then?"

"He told me that you'd known about what _really_ happened since the start of term."

Dumbledore's eyes were fixed to the table. "I'm sorry Harry."

"You of all people should _know_ how much I'd love to have him in my life," Harry said, his knuckles white as he gripped the chair in front of him. "He - he knew my _dad_."

Something sombre crossed Albus Dumbledore's face. "I can only apologise - as I stand before you now, I realise I've made a mistake. I simply didn't want to put you in danger."

Harry thought on his words briefly. "I'd rather have danger." he murmured, his face downcast.

Dumbledore glanced at the window. "I forget in my old age what Sirius could have given you, to my shame. Alas, I have held back far too much with regards to Sirius Black from you, which I shall now attempt to rectify," said Dumbledore, falling heavily into his seat. "Please Harry, take a seat."

Harry faltered for a moment, before tentatively sitting into a soft, cushioned chair across from Dumbledore.

The professor waved his wand arm, sweeping across the office and lighting the candles that stood atop several bookcases. The headmaster continued. "Sirius Black is not only your father's closest friend Harry. Sirius Black is your _Godfather._ "

A sharp intake of breath was Harry's response. His eyes were wide in shock. "My - my Godfather?"

"Indeed Harry, your godfather. Now, you may not be aware, but the title of Godfather is not simply a ceremonial one. In the event of no magical relative to take custody of a young wizard, the Godparent is treated as a next of kin within the magical community," said Dumbledore. Harry's anger grew anew. "However, should the godparent be incarcerated, custody of the child falls into the hands of the _ministry_. This is why the true relationship between you and Mr Black was a secret. A secret that only you, Sirius and I know."

"But how is that possible? How wouldn't the ministry know?" asked Harry.

"Harry I am not proud of this, but being the Supreme Mugwump has its advantages. One such advantage being that I am able to keep certain documents from the hands of the ministry and its magical sensors. They are not aware that you have a godfather, so they do not have custody of you. A loophole within the law, as is so often the case," said the headmaster, winking at Harry. "I could not allow the ministry control of you Harry - I would not wish to think where you may have ended up or with whom you would've ended up with under their jurisdiction. The Potter name is of high value after your grandfather Charlus' work in the Wizengamot and I wouldn't want a power-hungry politician robbing you of your childhood because of it."

Harry sat, contemplating. He would have to simply get used to have his entire worldview turn upon its head, he thought sarcastically.

"So, is this why I was forced to live with the Dursley's all these years? Because the alternative was the ministry?" Harry asked after a while. Dumbledore nodded, causing Harry's face to split open in a huge grin. "So, now that we know that Sirius is innocent, I can live with him!"

Dumbledore looked guilty. "I'm afraid not Harry. We have no evidence to support this claim, as true as it may be. Pensieve memories are not permissible in court. I am working to create a case to free Sirius, though it is proving difficult without any evidence of the true nature of Peter Pettigrew. Sirius knows this - that is why he hasn't searched for you sooner, so as not to rouse suspicion. I'm sorry that you were forced to live your first years in such a way, but truly it was the only option that I had. You simply _had_ to go to your relatives."

Harry face fell, though his eyes were not without hope. "Will I ever leave the Dursleys?"

Dumbledore gave Harry a look that would even Alastor Moody would be calmed by. "Rest assured, Harry. Your Godfather will be free."

"Thank you for this Professor." Harry said, his voice overcome with gratitude.

"Of course, my boy. You know, not a day goes by without someone coming into this office and handing me some manuscript or new bill," the professor said, gesturing to the table in front of them, a desk without a single inch of free space. "I truly detest bureaucracy. I wish to teach, to help the world. I hardly want to spend my days locked in here counting the grammatical mistakes of Cornelius Fudge."

Harry smiled. "Then why do you have so many responsibilities?"

"Because, if I could be so bold, there's no one quite as _competent_ as me. When they offered me the position of Chief Warlock, I knew no-one else could do quite as much good in that post as me. Then came the position of Supreme Mugwump. And so on. You know, my boy, some days I think what I'm doing is pointless - that the day I finally move on to the _great beyond_ , the next person will come along and rip apart all that I've worked to achieve. Then I remember, if I had that attitude, the name of the person in this chair would be _Gellert_ , not Albus."

Harry was perplexed. What had happened with Dumbledore and Grindelwald was something that they had never talked about.

"That may be true, but I think your powers are best spent outside of this office, sir." said Harry, his voice tentative.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Thank you for speaking freely, my boy. Many would disagree, you realise. Many would believe that it's my duty to carry the world upon my back."

"Those people are wrong." said Harry.

"So they may be, Harry. Yet, they will still make noise," Dumbledore said, his eyes glancing over a piece of parchment in front of him, spotting a mistake and making a note of it. "However, it does not fall to you to solve the issues of the world. So, have you made any friends, my boy?"

Harry suddenly felt like a first year all over again. "I've been busy with other things, professor. And now that Sirius has come about, I've had other things on my mind."

There was a hint of something more serious in Dumbledore's eyes. "Now more than ever, you will need others to help you. There are so many things that could happen with Sirius, and should they occur, you will need your friends to help you," spoke the headmaster, before his eyes suddenly brightened, the ever-present twinkle bright in the candlelight. "Now, my boy, it's past the time for you to be in bed. Tomorrow's a big day, with our friends from afar joining us. Who knows what might happen."

"Goodnight professor." said Harry, taking his leave, walking down the ancient steps from the magical office.

The walk from the headmaster's office to his dormitory served to clear his mind. Harry felt ever pleased with what he'd learned tonight, but that didn't change that his _Godfather_ had been incarcerated. He'd have to send a letter to Sirius and see how he could help.

Hogwarts castle guided the boy to the tower, Harry somehow managing to not even catch the wand-light of a prefect patrol, let alone have to speak to one. The world around him became a seamless connection of corridors and paintings, none of it causing even a cursory thought in Harry's mind.

None of it mattered. He had a Godfather, and everything was going to be okay.

* * *

 **So, there it is.**

 **Please review and tell me what you thought of it - once again, they're massively appreciated.**

 **Thank you.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello again.**

 **I apologise for the time between updates. Life got in the way.**

 **Thank you to everyone who reviewed the prior chapters, I really appreciate the responses and they help massively.**

 **This is the fifth chapter. Please continue to review.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

Harry's thoughts had been muddled somewhat recently. His actions had not greatly changed, nor had his routine changed in any large capacity. Yet, his paradigm had shifted immeasurably after his interaction with his Godfather. It was as though for his whole life he had seen only down to the floor and one day he had finally decided to look at the _sky_.

Before, he had spent much of his time in the quiet of the library, the monotony of study, the anthem of his evenings. Yet in recent days he could only bring spend a shade of the time he once did before restlessness took hold. He took to walking, pacing, about the castle, half-searching for _something_. A peculiar space had built in Harry, though he had no means to fill it.

However, he had looked to certain areas to fill such a space.

It would therefore be not surprising that Professor Lupin's room was alight in spell-fire.

Harry Potter stood, the wand in his hand a paintbrush as he composed a beautiful array of transformative magic. The world around him, the very air that surrounded his body, twisted and turned, fire and ozone and thunder forming at his every move. The temperature of the room ascended, then descended as currents of energy swept through the room. The very ambiance of the air changed as magic took its hold. The world felt warmer, brighter, as though a great weight had been lifted from Harry's shoulders, the energy liberating him.

His thoughts had been all over the place recently. The news of his Godfather, his life, Neville, Dumbledore. Not an hour would go by without thinking his mind drifting. So, as he often did, he went to the closest companion he had ever known.

 _Magic_.

Specifically, the Northern Magics.

Information of the art had felt more like folklore than academia. Each and every needle of magical information was buried within a haystack of myth and history. Its practitioners were brilliant craftsmen of magic, but they did not see fit to document what it was they were doing. Harry supposed that they thought that if one wanted to learn of their work, they would see it with their own eyes.

From what Harry had discovered, the art had two parts. Firstly, was the channeling of arcane magic to harness the power of the elements in destruction. Rather unfortunately, the Scandinavian warlocks that had crafted the magic were tremendously paranoid of their enemies learning the secrets of their work, so there were only a handful of the magics actually known to the world and, by the accounts of those who witnessed the true northern magics first hand, they were hardly a measure of what the school was truly capable of, a shadow of what the art could do.

However, all was not lost. The second part of the art was a ceremonial aspect, used within celebration or inauguration. In this, the magic became beautiful. It became _art._ The magic would trans-mutate the world into a beautiful spectacle of light and nature, every colour of the wind forming at the tip of his wand. It was as if a symphony was composed, not with music, but with _magic_.

Information in this aspect was more forthcoming.

He supposed that the idea of magic interacting with nature in its truest and simplest form was so overwhelmingly beautiful that the sorcerers that created the art could not bring themselves to stop it being shared. To do so would be almost heinous.

Harry had believed that the ceremonial aspect of the Northern Magics would be the key to discovering the battle magic. However, he was perfectly content to allow the breathtaking magic to surround him, without a care as to what violent acts could be done. So entranced was he by the magnificent display, that he failed to notice the commotion that developed outside his window. The sweeping, flowing magic that he was contained within drew all of his being, his focus.

Then, he heard the sail of the Durmstrang ship pierce the water within the Black Lake, and his focused snapped.

The swirling vortex of magical energy that was once so flowing, became a chaos. A pulse of flame shot out, wild and uncontrollable, around the room. Lightning charged through the air, tracing unnatural paths as it flickered through the air. A blip in concentration, and the magic became a law into itself.

Harry wrestled with the magic, _forcing_ the arcane power in the air to bend to his command. His whole body torqued as he fought the nature of what he himself had created. His arms shook with tension as he dragged the magic back under his command. Slowly, the wild torrent of nature fell under his control once more, the world around him halting in its attempt to rip his life from him. One _blip_ in concentration was all it took to almost take his life from him. One couldn't afford to lose track of the magic's nature, not even for a second.

The wizard slumped against the wall, sweat beading across his face, a look of pure exhaustion found upon his features. Dumbledore had said that this magic was wild, but now he _knew_. So often had the purebloods in his year claimed that _their_ magic was superior. How wrong they were. Magic was not _theirs_. Magic had no owner, or no master. So often spell-workers force magic into forms it should not take, not then realising that they are in turn poisoning the very force that they so wish to use.

Harry had hoped to attempt other spells, however his body was screaming in exhaustion. Instead, he looked out of the window that overlooked the Black Lake. A massive group of Hogwarts students had crowded the dock of the lake, hoping to be the first to catch a glimpse of the Durmstrang contingent. Even at the height of the Professor's office he then occupied, Harry could hear the excited chatter amongst those below. It seemed that everyone had been swept up in the excitement to catch a glimpse of seeing the Durmstrang contingent, though it was one specific student that caused more fascination than others.

Rather than join the masses, Harry opted to stay within his self-created utopia; the height of the classroom provided a nice viewpoint for the arrivals. The Black Lake was ensconced by nature, though in the cool autumn morning it appeared suddenly far more beautiful than Harry had ever seen it before. It seemed that the chill frost outlined the woodland, highlighting its beauty. It was only the eyesore of Durmstrang' ship that diminished the scene's brilliance.

Harry peered into the distance, the peaks of the highlands visible in the far horizon. He'd often thought of, on a quiet Hogsmeade weekend, walking beyond the grounds and venturing deep into the wilds of Scotland. His mind raced with the wonders he would see. He thought it in cruel that the school would force it's students to return to the mundane landscapes of places like Little Whinging, after being surrounded by such magnificence. Harry pictured himself a man allowed to walk amongst the gods in Mount Olympus and taste the sweet ambrosia, only to be forced back into the realm of mortality.

Suddenly, the noise from below grew as the students of Durmstrang emerged from their vessel. It seemed that everyone, even the usually stoic Zacharias Smith, had lost any semblance of composure in the face of meeting a celebrity such as Viktor Krum. The doors of the ship opened, exposing the surly faces of the foreign school to the frosty Scottish air. It seemed as though there had been an agreement between all of the school's students to look as blase as possible. Not a single measure of excitement could be seen upon their faces. They appeared as though they were members of a dirge procession - in fact, the only method to differentiate between the group and a collective of the dead was the steady gait they had began in unison.

One by one the visitors poured from their boat, yet the native students were rather disinterested. It was only one boy that they had any vested interest in. With each subsequent student that emerged, the expectation in the air grew as Viktor Krum's arrival grew imminent. Harry had overheard the Weasley twins discussing the Bulgarian's exploits at the World Cup over the summer, his performance firmly securing that Krum was without question the brightest Quidditch talent alive. Harry had thought he might have gone himself, but Dumbledore had reasoned against it, citing the dangers that a lone teenager may have faced in such a situation.

A fervor had overtaken the assembled crowd. They could not wait any longer for their hero to emerge. The older students had pushed up until they were adjacent to the vessel, the first and second years had crawled on hand and knee through their legs so as to be amongst the first to lock eyes with the man. Their eyes followed the last of the students in unison almost desperately, their very beings filled with need to see Krum.

It happened suddenly. The last of the blank-faced students emerged and suddenly the space was occupied by a thin, dark-eyed figure. His hair was neither short nor long, he was neither thin nor large, neither handsome or grotesque. He looked decidedly average, yet the response he drew was not.

It shouldn't have been possible, but Harry noted that the crowd reached a fever pitch. They were inches removed from unbridled frenzy. He'd never seen quite a sight. It seemed as though they had been possessed by some form of demonic spirit.

Krum had long since grown used to such a reaction that he didn't outwardly react save for a small, upward curve of his mouth that somewhat resembled a smile. No, the cult of personality that had formed around him shocked him none as Harry noted he walked through his audience without issue or occurrence, save for only the occasional muttering to the man adjacent to him; a shady, grimy man with blackened fingernails and sallow skin.

The crowd followed Krum into the castle like a shadow. Some of the enraptured had regained enough of their composure to try and feign aloofness, despite their actions yet moments earlier. Harry lost sight of them as they entered the castle.

He pondered to himself, for a moment - How would the Goblet of Fire choose the champions? If it was by popular vote, there needn't have been cause for anyone but Krum to even _try_. In the literature that concerned the tournament, the artifact would determine the champion based upon which entrant was the most 'worthy'. So, is the goblet clairvoyant in property? Does it act so as to predict whom would be of most worth during the tasks?

The thought could not stick with him for too long however, his eyes had already began to draw closed as the day's prior activities made their effects upon him all too known. The room around him was a mess, but that problem would simply have to wait. His eyes drew closed, as he slept upon the cold stone floor of Hogwarts Castle.

* * *

"Y'know Harry, I think beds are supposed to be a bit more comfortable than stone. You might find a nap in your dorm a touch more enjoyable," spoke a voice, rousing Harry from his impromptu slumber. His green eyes blinked open, greeted with what had fast become his favourite sight.

"W-why are you here Tonks?" he asked, his voice deepened and groggy.

"Because I just couldn't take being apart from you for so long." Tonks replied, her then-blue eyes winking at him. "Well, that isn't the entire truth, though it is a portion of it."

Baffled as Harry was, a grin broke out across his face.

"My 'official' reason for being here is that I've been re-stationed at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament; apparently after what happened at the World Cup, the ministry is concerned that someone might try and attack the castle. I reckon its bollocks - no-one could get _into_ Hogwarts, let alone get past Dumbledore - but I'm not complaining, it's better than escorting drunkards home from the Hog's Head."

Harry sat up, hearing his spine crack in discomfort as he did so. Tonks joined him in sitting on the classroom floor, her legs crossed.

"What happened at the World Cup?" asked Harry.

"You didn't hear?" responded Tonks. He shook his head, earning a look of amusement from Tonks. "It was plastered across the Prophet for a _fortnight_. Don't you get it delivered even when you're back with your muggle relatives?"

"They don't like having owls come to the house." he said. Tonks frowned.

"Bit weird. To be fair though, you're not missing much. Mum and Dad only get it for the crossword nowadays - there's only so much of Skeeter's tripe you can read before you lose brain cells," she replied. "I was at the World Cup myself, I managed to win a ticket in the office raffle. Before the game started, a bunch of blokes dressed as Death Eaters attacked the Bulgaria's Veela Mascots, screaming about 'Half-Breeds' and all that. They were stopped before they killed anyone, but they managed to escape before they got arrested. They set fire to the camp around the stadium after that. It was a miracle really that no-one died."

Harry was stunned. If Death Eaters were active again, that meant that Pettigrew would no doubt be amongst them. And, as bad as the traitor being amongst his allies was, it did mean that Dumbledore had a direction of inquiry.

Tonks continued. "Now that I think of it, I saw the Weasleys at the world cup. Isn't the youngest boy in your year? How come you hadn't heard of this from him?"

"Me and him aren't really friends." Harry said, his eyes fixed to the stone floor.

"But you share a dorm? Isn't it impossible to _not_ be friends with someone you spend like eighty percent of your time?"

"He's a bit too cool to be associated with me." Harry said, his voice withdrawn.

Tonks laughed. "I forgot you were a _nerd_. I bet you're leader of the Gobstones club and spend all of your time at the library."

Harry smiled. "Something like that."

Tonks suddenly realised the carnage that was the classroom they were in. Every desk in the room was broken and the blackboard had been severed in two. "However, it seems like that you're not too averse to causing some chaos. What did you _do_ here?"

"I lost control of a spell and it got away from me a bit." Harry said.

"It must have been one hell of a spell. I've been in Auror raids with less damage caused than this," Tonks said, her face held in confusion in a manner that managed to draw all of Harry's focus. "I'm pretty sure they don't teach anything that could do this in fourth year though. Are you _really_ reading ahead _already_?"

Harry caught himself before he began to stare at her. "Y-yeah, a bit. Just something that caught my attention."

"Look, Harry, you have your whole life to find every little boring bit of magic and practice it to your heart's content. You have so much time to become the next Dumbledore, what you don't have is the ability to be young twice. You don't want to look back at your time at Hogwarts and think of all of the girls you _didn't_ get with. You should be with your friends, asking girls out and sneaking Firewhiskey into your dorms and _living,_ " Tonks said, the tone of her voice becoming more assured as she spoke. Her eyes softened then. "I just want you to be happy, Harry. And if there's one thing that I don't think you are, it's happy."

Harry allowed a silence to overcome them for a moment as he pondered what she had said. "I don't think that's who I am Tonks. I don't think I'm the type to be talking to girls and doing things like that. It's not as if I've been inundated with people trying to date me, after all. I've been alright up to now being alone with my books and my art, and I hardly think that's going to change any time soon."

A look of exasperation took over the Auror's face, her then-brown eyes rolling. "Well it is now. I said that I'm going to get you to pull, and I will if it's the last thing I do. When's the next Hogsmeade weekend?"

"Two weeks time." Harry replied.

"Okay, so you're _going_ to have a date for that weekend. It has to happen. You're going to have a thoroughly shit time at Madam Puddifoot's, as is tradition. It's going to be tremendously awkward, but you're going to do it and you'll thank me for making you do it."

The concept sounded terrible to Harry, mainly because the only person he'd even _want_ to do that with was the one forcing him to do it in the first place. "And if I don't do that?"

"You _will,_ " she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Well, it's Teatime. Wanna go to the main hall and get some food?"

"No thanks, I'd rather get this room tidied up if it's all the same to you." Harry responded.

"Are you sure? Don't you want to impress all the geeks you hang around with by showing them the hot, older Metamorphmagus you're friends with?" she wondered, winking as she did.

He thought for a moment about how he would respond. "There's no-one to impress, really. I'm just quite content on my own."

A mixture of sadness and sympathy floated through Tonks' eyes. She brought Harry into her arms then, holding him close to her. "Oh _Harry_."

Harry dare not move to reciprocate the action lest she let go, instead he was content to be held by Tonks. That, he realised inwardly, was the first time he'd ever been hugged, at least that he could remember.

"You need put yourself out there, if only because I don't want to be sad every time I think about your social life," Tonks continued, earning a laugh from Harry. "I need to start writing a checklist of all of the things I'm gonna force you to do, for your own sake. I'm gonna title it 'The Blossoming of A Wallflower' or 'How To Make a Lonely Nerd Less Lonely'. I don't know yet, I'll workshop the idea."

Harry and Tonks ended up not going to get food, instead spending the afternoon fixing the room Harry had so thoroughly ruined. As they did so, it occurred to Harry that it was the first time he'd spent time with another person and not wish to be anywhere else.

Tonks left after a while, going home to fetch herself some food and catch up on all of the paperwork she'd been burdened with as a rookie Auror. Harry watched her go, and all that he wanted in that moment was for her to stay with him.

* * *

It was just as the sun set that the Beauxbatons contingent arrived at the castle, flying in on an enormous carriage that was pulled by a fleet of majestic white animals that Harry had overheard the groundskeeper Hagrid call an 'Abraxan'. Harry thought, rather cynically, that the two school's entrances offered him all he'd ever need to know about them.

The Abraxans landed upon the field that overlooked the Black Lake, at which a large crowd had gathered. Harry sat at the bank of the lake, content to watch from a considerable distance. He noted that whilst the crowd for Durmstrang was an even split of the sexes, the crowd gathered for the French contingent was predominately male.

The reason for this was all too apparent as, when the doors of the carriage opened, the unmistakable sight of a Veela was shown to all that were there. Much alike the reaction that Krum's fame had brought, the incredible beauty of the Veela had whipped the gathered crowd into a frenzy. Impromptu feats of strength broke out, with many of the older years conjuring heavy objects to heave above their head, whilst the younger years seemed content to simply gawp at the girl. Harry counted himself lucky that he didn't feel the affects, lest he make a fool of himself.

The Veela were a subject that Harry had found fascinating, though that was rather purely in the academic context. As was so often the case with magic, the usual rules of genetics did not apply when they had children with either Humans or Wizards. Genes that were recessive were not when Veela were involved. In addition, it appeared that when they bred with Wizards, they seemed to get both sets of abilities, though they did retain the aversion to water that Veela demonstrated.

Many academics postulated upon the concept of 'Quarter' Veela and the length at which the talents remained in the genome. Again, all scientific logic seemed to be thrown out of the window when magic was concerned. From what had been noted, it would seem that once Veela characteristics were introduced, it would remain evident _forever._ There was no difference in the 'magnitude' of Veela abilities from 'Half' to 'Quarter' Veela, or 'Quarter' to 'Eighth'. Once you were of Veela ancestry, your progeny would be for the rest of time.

The girl whom everyone had their eyes trained upon, for example, was an 'Eighth' Veela. Fleur Delacour, the child of a fairly notable bureaucrat within the French Ministry. As demonstrated by the effortless charm she had over everyone around her, she held the power of the Veela. Harry recognised that she was almost angelic in her beauty, with long, flowing blonde hair and a perfectly delicate face with high cheekbones and arresting blue eyes. Despite that, in his eyes she still couldn't hold a candle to Tonks.

The girl seemed entirely unperturbed with the attention she received, preferring to look down her perfect nose at the assembled crowd. She was followed out by an older lady that Harry assumed to be the Headmistress of the French institution, who was incredibly large in stature as she towered over everyone that was around her. The rest of the visiting students soon followed, but it seemed that they were only there to support Delacour. Harry was almost totally without doubt that she would be their representative.

It took the assembled crowd of Hogwarts students a worryingly long time to regain their composure, by which time Harry noted that those that many that had girlfriends, after their reaction to the French girl, did not. Rather fortunately for all involved, that reaction was only a singular occurrence. People would only react in that way to impress her _once_ , afterward any action toward her would simply be the stupidity of teenagers, rather than any magical power. Harry pondered to himself why magic manifested in such a way. Was it a method of finding a worthy companion, or simply a method of weeding out those who were not mentally strong enough to not be affected? Or rather more likely than that, was it a method of protection?

Harry himself thought it was simply another expression of the will of magic. It simply did what it wanted, and in this instance all it wanted to do was amuse itself. The scene itself was, to Harry's eye, akin to a renaissance painting, with a crowd almost worshiping her, yet Fleur Delacour appeared entirely uninterested. Harry tried to commit the image to memory, so that he could recreate it later on canvas.

It seemed with the appearances of the other two schools that they had their contenders very clearly outlined. From what he had overheard from his year mates, the position of Hogwarts champion was not quite such a clear cut affair. The Head Boy Cassius Warrington seemed to be a favourite, though Cedric Diggory and Angelina Johnson were also well regarded.

Harry however, did not believe that any of them would be the ones that the Goblet chose. No, despite age limit, it seemed fairly clear to Harry that only one person would be wearing Hogwarts colours, and that was Neville Longbottom.

He was The-Boy-Who-Lived, after all.

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **Thank you for reading, and once again please review so I can improve.**

 **Thank you.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Here's the next chapter.**

 **Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapters, please continue to do so.**

 **Here we go.**

* * *

The arrival of the other schools seemed to have put the whole of Hogwarts in a sort of 'Triwizard Fever'. Even now, as Harry Potter sat in his usual seat at the front of the Transfiguration classroom, he could hear the quiet din of conversation as everyone waited for Professor McGonagall to enter the classroom. Usually the stoic lady's classroom was silent, though that was not the case today.

"I _definitely_ could get passed the age line. It's _easy._ " spoke Ron Weasley, an assured bravado colouring his tone.

"Look mate, I believe in you. You're a top bloke, really. But its Dumbledore we're talking about here. He hasn't lost a duel in about a million years. Do you really think it's gonna be as simple as getting an owl to drop it in for you, or getting a seventh year to do it?" replied Neville Longbottom.

"Listen, he said that the Goblet will choose whoever's the most _worthy_. It doesn't matter about the age line at all, really. The goblet's gonna sense the pure unadulterated brilliance that is Ronald Bilius Weasley and let me through. No. Questions. Asked." Retorted Ron, a clear humour in his voice.

"Oh yeah, and the Cannons are going to win the league and Seamus is gonna go out with Lavender and Malfoy will stop being a dickhead." spoke Dean Thomas, stirring laughter from those who sat around him.

"If you have all ceased your chatter, would it _pain_ you all if I began today's lesson?" said the Transfiguration Professor, demonstrating her uncanny ability to sneak in undetected, as evidenced by the start she had caused in the assembled Gryffindor and Ravenclaw class. "Now, today we're going to be continuing our study into cross-species Transfiguration, and for today's exercise we're going to be trying something that no doubt many of you will find trying."

The tall Professor brandished her wand then, causing a porcupine to appear upon her desk. Whether it was summoning or conjuration, Harry was unsure, so quick was her wand action. "We'll be changing this porcupine into a hedgehog. In this, your focus should be upon ensuring that the end result is definitively different from the beginning porcupine. Remember that you must have a clear image of end transfiguration, or your end results may be cataclysmically bad," she said before silently transforming the porcupine into a perfect hedgehog. "You shall find the incantation within your textbooks. You will perform this task in pairs so as to improve the likelihood of you completing the task. You will have the remainder of the lesson to attempt this task."

Her words caused a flash of anxiety to run through Harry. It was incredibly rare for any collaboration in her lesson and so he had not mentally prepared for the eventuality of talking to someone else. He had hoped for an odd number of people in the class so that he was spared such an event, but a quick head count proved he wasn't quite so lucky.

As was so often the case, everyone had made a beeline for their friends. Harry felt sorry for the unfortunate soul who had drawn the short straw of being someone's second favourite friend, though his partner became readily apparent when Hermione Granger was left stranded as everyone's allegiances made themselves known. In hindsight, this was the most likely outcome, Harry thought, as she herself shared his distinction of being one who preferred the company of books to other people.

Rather uncharacteristically, she was apprehensive as she approached him. "Erm, I guess we're going to have to work together today. I hope you don't mind too much."

Harry nodded, preferring to keep quiet.

Upon a total lack of vocal response, she quickly returned to herself. "So, I've read the notes for the spell quite a few times and it looks quite tricky, but _I_ should be able to do it rather straight away. The incantation is rather simple, but it makes use of quite a lot of mental focus which is where the difficulty lies." Said Hermione, her tone bordering on lecturing. Harry didn't think it prudent to tell her that he himself had also read the literature concerning the spell, and had even managed the spell himself about a week prior. Harry thought she rather enjoyed the sound of her own voice.

"I do love Transfiguration, you know. It can be frighteningly difficult, but that's where all the fun lies. And McGonagall of course is a brilliant teacher, she's wonderful and she will always help you if you have trouble or give you something interesting to research that isn't on the syllabus if you ask her. She was the one that came to my house, you know, to introduce me to magic. She told me which books to buy from Flourish and Blotts if I was interested in the academic aspect of magic," continued Hermione. Harry was beginning to see why she was the one that had been partnered with her. "Anyway, if we don't start with the spell now, we've not got a chance of finishing it before the lesson ends."

Harry wordlessly retrieved a Porcupine from where they were stored in the back of the classroom, as Hermione once more looked over their textbook. Perhaps, he thought, if they managed to do it quickly they'd be allowed to return to working by themselves.

"Okay, so the incantation is _ericusus_ and it uses the wand motion that all change spells use. I'll try first as I think I have the best chance of us two to perform it correctly, then you can learn from what I did," said Hermione, before training her wand at the animal. " _Ericusus._ "

The small mammal underwent a metamorphosis, though the end result was simply a more rotund Porcupine - the animal in question itself did not appear to be all too thrilled with its change in proportions. Harry quickly performed the counter-charm, returning the rodent to it's original dimensions.

"Well that didn't go according to how I imagined it. My pronunciation and wand motion was perfect, so I wonder where the issue lies." Said Hermione, her cheeks pinked in a shade of embarrassment at her lack of immediate success. "Did you see something obvious that I didn't do?"

Harry shook his head. "These things take time I suppose, though I'd rather they didn't. Why didn't you have a go?" asked Hermione, to which Harry would gave an in-eloquent hum of agreement.

Harry pointed his wand the small animal. He remembered that he had learned from his own attempts with animal-to-animal Transformations, one had to envision not just the image of the animal the transformation caused, but it's movement as well. Its gait. He suspected that was where Hermione had failed, but he imagined she'd rather discover that for herself than a stranger tell her.

" _Ericusus._ " Incanted Harry, producing a near-perfect hedgehog, save for some slight discolouring on a small patch of its spines, but he didn't hold it against himself. Upon seeing his spell, a gasp of shock left Hermione.

"B-b-but how did you manage that? It's supposed to be near- _impossible_ to perform correctly your first occasion." said the girl, her mind frantically scrambling for answers. Harry thought of telling her the truth, though he didn't wish to prolong any conversation.

"Luck, I imagine." he replied, his voice soft.

"It can't be _luck_. There's no _luck_ in magic and especially so in Transfiguration," said Hermione, who was beginning to become rather irate, her face reddening. "Do it again."

Rather than cause fuss, he complied. He performed the counter-charm, then once more spoke. " _Ericusus._ "

The end result was once more the same, with this time a perfect hedgehog being formed on the desk.

"Very impressive, Potter. It's not often someone demonstrates success with this spell so quickly. I would award you house points, but I think with this you've earned an exemption to the homework that I had intended upon setting," said McGonagall, once more displaying her rare stealth in sneaking up to the pair. "I knew that the son of James Potter would have inherited some of his father's proclivities."

A rare beaming smile covered Harry's face at Deputy Headmistress' words. Unfortunately, Hermione had a growing ire at Harry. As McGonagall left to attend the rather comical efforts of Parvati Patil, Hermione whispered. "That's not _fair_ , you know. Just because you got lucky with your spell doesn't mean you should get out of assignments."

Her words managed to wipe Harry's smile from his face, though he didn't acquiesce to her point.

Hermione attempted the spell a great many times during the lesson, but her anger only served to make her attempts worse. It seemed like this spell was her Achilles Heel. She had managed to get closer to the desired result than all others, though that was clearly not enough for the girl. For his part, Harry simply sat and performed the counter-charm when necessary, his mind focused elsewhere on the more pressing task that Tonks had set him.

He had absolutely no idea what he would do. It wasn't as if he had a girl at school that he wanted to spend time with. He didn't really want to punish anyone with his presence and that, to his mind, seemed to be the only outcome. The worst aspect of it all to him was that it put it out rather plainly that Tonks wanted nothing to do with him which, whilst fairly obvious, stung. Not for the first time, he was rather annoyed at his circumstances.

Mentally, he drew up a list of all of the girls in his year that might not try and eternally embarrass him if he were to ask them out, though that qualification ruled out nearly every one. Certainly all those in Slytherin. House lines ran deep, after all. And, he didn't want to live out his life up to eighteen feeling overwhelming embarrassment every time he went to his common room, which ruled out everyone in Gryffindor. So, realistically, he only had those in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as actual options.

The issue proved to be a quandary that stuck with Harry throughout the entire lesson. It was only when McGonagall called the lesson to an end, that he was drawn from his thoughts. Harry motioned to leave the room, when the professor's voice called from behind him. "Potter, could you remain behind for a moment."

Perturbed, Harry closed the door as his classmates scurried off to the greener pastures of the Great Hall for lunch.

"I must say, I was quite shocked by your exemplary results over the past examination period. You hadn't done quite as much as others have to draw attention to your own proficiency, though I assume that was rather deliberate on your part," said McGonagall. A look of confusion crossed Harry's face. "As to why I asked you to stay behind, I simply wished to say that you're efforts will no longer go unnoticed by myself, which I have to say has been the case for the past few years."

Harry was inwardly smiling at her words. The Transfiguration Professor continued. "I shall once more extend the offer I do to all students. Should you find a challenging aspect of your studies that you become stuck on, I am always available to help. I dare say we expect great things from you, Mr Potter."

Her words shocked Harry, though he was incredibly thankful for the sentiment. He took his leave from the classroom, though he immediately ran in to a familiar face.

"Right, I've just spent the last hour of my life totally confused and feeling like a blithering idiot. You're _going_ to show me how to do that spell now, or I fear my mind my melt out of my ears."

"And should I not help you?" asked Harry, though in truth he realised that if he helped her, he'd be more likely to be rid of her.

"Well, up to now, you were just the quiet Gryffindor fourth year. No one knew that you were brilliant at Transfiguration and _believe me_ , you will want it to stay that way. If you don't help me, everyone will know how good you are and you'll be up to your neck in people asking you to help them with their homework."

As annoying as it was, her logic was stellar. He was beginning to come around to Dumbledore's point of being more than just a pariah, but the idea of him being the next, well, Hermione, wasn't exactly enticing.

A thought struck him. "Did you wait out here for the whole time McGonagall was talking to me?" asked Harry.

"No, actually I apparated to Paris and spent the time in the Louvre. _Of course I did_. The matter is of pivotal importance. And before you say you want to get your lunch, I know you avoid the Main Hall like the plague."

"How do you know that?" asked Harry, a sense of worry in his voice.

"Because everyone knows you do. You're the only one from our year that's ever absent so regularly. It's slightly more conspicuous than you might wish it to be." replied Hermione. The pair took the short walk to the library, though the only thought that occupied Harry's mind that he was becoming increasingly annoyed with the girl.

"I just don't understand what I'm doing wrong," began Hermione as they meandered the hallways of the castle. "All of the textbooks I've looked at haven't detailed any other beguiling aspect of transfiguration. There's not some hidden sixth aspect of the equation that I don't know. It's so troubling."

Harry thought the truly troubling aspect of the current circumstance was that he was being forced to spend time with this girl.

They reached the library, finding it deserted save for its stalwart guardian Madam Pince. Wordlessly, they both sat at a table tucked into an alcove in one of the more secluded corners of the room.

"So, what's the secret?" asked the muggleborn girl as they sat, having already brought out her quill and parchment in preparation.

"I'm, erm, not great with words but I think you're sorta not approaching the problem correctly," said Harry, coughing as his voice thickened with nerves as he spoke. "Living things don't just exist as objects. They live. When you change an animal to another, you need to think of the animals existence as well as what it looks like."

Hermione looked incredibly disappointed with his rather short explanation. "So I just have to treat an animal like _an animal_."

Harry nodded. "Basically, yeah."

She threw up her arms in exasperation. "I wish I'd thought of that! It makes total sense now, of course. We're not recreating an inanimate being here, animals have a life force of their own and I should've realised that."

"I wished I'd thought to have taken one of the Porcupines with us, I want to _finally_ get this spell right." Hermione said.

Harry wanted nothing more than to be back to Lupin's old room, so he said the first thing that he could think that would ensure that. "I can conjure one."

"No you can't. They don't teach mammal conjuration until NEWT's. You might be good, but I know you can't do that." Hermione said.

Rather than explain what he would do, instead he used the Snake Conjuring spell they were taught in second year, then transfigured the snake into a porcupine.

"If I knew someone was this much better than me at Transfiguration, I'd have done more reading this summer," muttered Hermione, though Harry suspected it was entirely to herself, after the display of magic. Harry thought it wasn't that impressive and that given an afternoon's practice he was fairly sure that nearly everyone in the year could achieve it. "Okay I think I can do this."

She once more closed her eyes, before she spoke. " _Ericusus._ "

This time, the spell worked as she had intended. Where once a porcupine had stood, now stood a hedgehog, albeit with a few of its needles eschew.

A breath of relief left Harry. He watched on as she repeated the spell several more times, with each attempt getting closer and closer to her intended result until at last a perfect replica of what Harry had achieved was sat atop the desk.

Hermione looked thrilled as this happened, her earlier grave mood replaced as her success drew joy from her.

Her eyes flickered to Harry, who had began to pack his bags in preparation to leave. "I'm sorry for being so belligerent today, I just really hate not being able to do something in Professor McGonagall's lessons. I really owe you for a lot for helping me today. So, should you ever find yourself needing help with homework, I'll be here to help you, though I doubt that'll ever happen."

Harry nodded, taking his leave.

"Thank you, Harry."

As he left, Harry wondered why Hermione was quite so resolute that he be the one to help her. She said herself that she'd often go to McGonagall for help, after all.

* * *

It was a tired Harry Potter that made his way to Dumbledore's office, his fatigue entirely caused by the work he would be doing within his own private studies.

Fatigue through spellcasting was a rather rare thing, nowadays. The rigour with which magical theory and spellcasting was taught meant that very little magic was wasted outside of the purely applied aspect of spellcasting, meaning that less magical energy would need to be channeled through the wizard's body in order for a spell to take affect, so less force was exerted upon a wizard's body in spellcasting. Many years ago, St Mungo's had an entire wing dedicated to exhaustion, for those that had been too haphazard with their spellwork. The improvement in education practices had meant that there hadn't more than the occasional example of spellcasting fatigue for quite some time.

However, Harry had ran into the very reason that the Northern Magics were not in popular use. As brilliant as they may be, they did not follow the conventional theory that built upon the first Roman Arithmancers. As such, the wand motions and theory that he had been taught proved fairly useless in controlling the magic and as such he would use a great deal of energy in his efforts to control and use the Northern Magics.

Harry approached the gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office. "Shadowplay." Said Harry, allowing him passageway into the office. He'd wanted to see the headmaster for quite a while, though it was as difficult as ever to find him in a moment when he wasn't performing one of his many duties.

He caught sight of the Professor hunched over his desk, glancing through what looked to be a ministry document. Having heard his footsteps, the Headmaster spoke, his eyes not once leaving the page. "Please sit, Harry."

They sat in silence, Harry preferring until the Headmaster began the conversation, as Dumbledore finished his appraisal of the document in front of him.

"Did you know that there is a movement within the Wizengamot to put into place a minimum weight upon paper that is able to be sold?" said Dumbledore, his wizened voice breaking their companionable silence.

"Why would they do that?" Harry asked, in response. Try as he might to assimilate into the culture of wizardry, so often did their actions leave him confused.

"If I were to tell you that the movement was spearheaded by a Mr Malfoy and a Mr Goyle, would that give you any clue?" asked the Headmaster.

Harry thought for a moment. "I suppose that if lighter paper were to be removed from circulation, parchment would be the only option to be used. I wasn't aware that either of them were involved within selling parchment, though." said Harry, his voice searching.

Albus Dumbledore chuckled. "Astute as ever, Harry. I do enjoy our conversations for that very reason. No, as I'm sure you're aware, the reason we use parchment is that through a fluke of magic, the process of magically creating parchment is quicker and less magically complex than forming paper. For that reason, all of the paper you find within the magical world is of muggle manufacture.

"This represents a moral quandary, Harry. Messrs Malfoy and Goyle wish for the magical economy to be entirely self-contained, even though the consequence of that is the quality of our technology decreases. And, though their reasons for this are entirely prejudiced, what they're doing does have merit."

"It doesn't seem to be an entirely clear cut issue, Professor." Harry replied.

"No, my boy, it isn't. Even worse, as they do happen to hold a lot of economic power within our community, even if I were to block this movement they would no doubt impose tariffs on muggle paper until it was simply too expensive to be logical to buy."

"I suppose you'll have to choose your battles, Professor." Harry said. Dumbledore laughed.

"That may be true, Harry, though it pains me to do so. The more we remove any connection we have to the muggle world, the more foreign it will become to the wizards born to muggle families. Nothing good will ever come of isolating ourselves from the outside world." Said the Headmaster. "I do hate to bring politics into our discussions, Harry, so let us move onto to more important matters. To what do I owe your presence this evening?"

Harry cleared his throat. "I'd quite like to hear the full events of what happened to my parents." said Harry.

A troubled look took overtook Albus Dumbledore's usually twinkling blue eyes. "Are you sure, my boy? This is a knowledge that will heavy upon you. It will be a burden, rather than an enlightenment."

"I'm quite sure, Professor. I want to know their fate." said Harry, his voice lacking in volume but making up for it in assuredness.

"If you are entirely sure, Harry. I only ask because I do not want you to become caught up in some misguided vengeance because of this. No good would come of such bloodshed."

"I understand, Professor." replied Harry.

"If you are entirely sure that you want this Harry, I shall tell you," began Dumbledore, sinking into the soft backed chair that he sat on. "It was All Hallows Eve, 1981. Your parents were off duty for the night from the Order-"

"Sirius mentioned this Headquarters. What was it the Headquarters of?" asked Harry.

"I suppose you deserve to know. The Headquarters was the main base of operations for who I had assembled to fight against Voldemort. We were named the Order of The Phoenix, after our friend here." said Dumbledore, gesturing to the bird perched atop one of the bookcases adjacent to the Headmaster, who gave a trill in response.

"As I was saying, Professor Snape had, at that time, began working as our one and only spy within the Death Eaters and had informed us of an attacked planned that night upon the Longbottom Estate. What we did not know was that Voldemort had his own informant within _our_ ranks - Peter Pettigrew. I believe it was Voldemort's intention to cause confusion by attacking two targets at once, both the Longbottoms _and_ your parents. The confusion would allow him to freely attack young Neville and, to my great shame, he succeeded. By the time we had realised what was happening, the damage had already been done.

"Voldemort sent his army to the attack at Longbottom Manor. It took our order a great deal of time to overcome this, by which time he and Bellatrix Lestrange broke through the Longbottom defenses, subduing Neville's parents, though that aspect of the events of that night is well documented. Whilst this happened, the two Lestrange brothers, the Carrow twins and one other person ambushed your parents. Your parents fought honourably, but it was simply too many to be overcome by their talents, though they managed to make sure that everyone that attacked the Headquarters did not leave under their own power, ensuring they were apprehended by the Aurors and tried. Furthermore, through some miracle, you managed to escape the attack without a scratch."

Harry was stunned, the weight of what was said fully hitting him. His parent had died protecting him, died fighting for a better world to live in. And for that, he was incomprehensibly grateful.

"I-I - Thank you, Professor," said Harry, his voice laden with emotion. However, one aspect of the story stuck out to him. "You said another person was there, who were they?"

"Does it truly matter Harry? I fear all that knowledge would do was stoke a vengeance inside you that nothing good would come of."

"Please Professor, they were my _parents_. I need to know." Said Harry, his green eyes blazing.

"If you are absolutely sure Harry, though I warn you, you will not be happy after hearing the name that I say." said Dumbledore. Harry nodded, accepting what he had said.

"Who was it, Professor?"

"Lucius Malfoy."

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **Again, please continue to review. I massively appreciate your comments.**

 **Thank you.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello all.**

 **I appreciate all of your reviews of the previous chapters. Please continue to review so that my writing may improve.**

 **Also, I have began writing a new story called The Conversations, which I hope you look at if you're able to.**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

Lucius Malfoy.

 _Lucius Malfoy._

Harry Potter had not really known hate before he heard those two words. No, the frigid apathy he felt for his relatives did not run quite so deep. He did not even hate Peter Pettigrew, the man whom if anything was directly responsible for Harry's fate. That man was too menial, too feeble to deserve hate.

Lucius Malfoy, however, sparked a fire within Harry that he'd never known before. The thought of the man caused Harry's mind to go blank in rage. In the pit of his stomach he felt a creature of bile and acid become born.

He left Dumbledore's office abruptly after the Headmaster's proclamation, instead taking a walk of the castle. It was before curfew as he traversed the corridors, so he did not have the solace of purely his own company as he would wish, though his rage blinded him to the usual anxiety he would feel with others around.

He had only met the man once before when he was twelve in the summer before his second year at Hogwarts, though he knew that would change, and it was not a notable event. The pureblood didn't know who he was, though for that Harry suspected he should be grateful. Malfoy may have wished to finish what he had started.

Harry pounded through the castle, totally devoid of an end goal, though he felt the urge to break something form, his prior exhaustion far from his mind. He thought of going back to Lupin's classroom, though he was stopped in his tracks as he heard a familiar voice.

"So, the ugly _Mudblood_ has finally crawled from wherever she hides. I'm amazed you're still coming to here at Hogwarts. It doesn't usually take Filch this long to clean up _dirt._ " spoke Draco, as he had cornered Hermione Granger in a quiet courtyard near the Charms corridor, bracketed as usual by Crabbe and Goyle. Though it was the wrong Malfoy, Harry did not care, all he could hear was the blood in his ears.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy, or I'll have to get McGonagall." responded Hermione, her voice resolute but her body language portraying her fear as she curled into herself.

"The old crone won't care, Mudblood. No-one will pay any mind because no-one cares about you, or your ilk. Oh, Dumbledore and McGonagall pretend to respect abominations like you, they _say_ they think you're the same as us, but you're not. You and every other one of your kind could drop dead tomorrow and the only thought running through anyone's mind would be of the effort required to collect your _disgusting_ little Mudblood bodies. You know it's true. It's why you have no friends. It's why no-one talks to you. Face it, Mudblood, you're _worthless_."

As he spoke, all that Harry could see was Lucius Malfoy transposed in his son's position and his mother in place of Hermione. He'd heard enough. He'd seen enough. He saw _red_.

He couldn't think nor was he consciously in control of his body as he rushed at Draco. It was as if a malevolent spirit overtook his body and sent him flying toward Draco, catching the pureblood by surprise - he didn't react quickly enough to prevent Harry from pinning him to the ground, his knees stopping Draco from retrieving his wand. Harry's eyes flicked toward Draco's friends, though there must have been something in the way he looked at Crabb and Goyle then, for they simply bolted from the courtyard.

Harry would think in hindsight that he should've stopped there, but he didn't. Harry reared his fist back, swinging it as hard as he could at Draco _Malfoy_ , his hand finding a mark at the chin of the boy underneath Harry, sending the back of his head bouncing off of the concrete floor with a horrible thud, unconscious.

Harry came to after that, suddenly feeling a horrible pooling in his stomach for his actions. He glanced at Hermione, who for her part remained where she was when he had first came across Draco harassing her. The event felt so entirely foreign to Harry that he had no idea what to do, though he knew that no lasting harm would come to Draco which provided some solace.

He glanced once more at Hermione, who he noticed was similarly unsure as to what she should do. Harry suspected that she would tell one of the Professors _exactly_ what had happened, which was a recompense Harry deserved.

He weighed his options, and he knew that Granger would make sure Draco would get to Madam Pomfrey. So he left the courtyard to his dormitory, where his exhaustion had once more made itself known and he fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Harry Potter woke, once again, to the sound of cannon-fire.

Harry was confused that this had happened again and he had, in neither occasion, had any harm come to him. In the December of his first year, Seamus had somehow managed to mess up the Leg-Locking Jinx so severely that he had instead set fire to the curtains that covered the dormitory's south facing window.

It was, however, not such a calamity that Harry saw when he opened his eyes - his glasses still on his face as he had been to tired to remember to remove them. Instead, a banner had been placed across his bed's posters, though the words left Harry baffled. It read:

 _Congratulations Harry, the hero of the people._

Harry was entirely convinced he was dreaming. Though, it didn't seem to be the case as his roommates came into his, view, jumping up as they all exclaimed in wordless jubilation. They seemed thrilled, a rarity given it was a Tuesday which meant double potions with Snape. Even Ron Weasley, who had been known to concoct absurdly elaborate reasons to miss Snape's lessons, was more jubilant than Harry had ever seen him.

It was, in fact, Ron who spoke first. "Harry, we heard what you did last night and, quite frankly, we've never been more proud to be a part of Gryffindor, knowing that someone like you is also part of our house."

What on earth were they on about? Had Granger told them about his Transfiguration marks? She promised not to!

Seamus continued. "To be honest, we're all a bit ashamed that we haven't noticed your abilities earlier. Our last few years would've been so much easier if we'd have known."

Neville moved into view, then, which confused Harry further. As far as Harry was aware, Neville wasn't the type to require help with his academics. "Look Harry, I know this is all a bit much, but after hearing about what you did for one of Gryffindor it had occurred to us that we hadn't quite been ' _the house of togetherness'_ that McGonagall had insisted we were. So, consider this a gesture of welcoming and an apology for not noticing you before."

At this, Harry felt a rush of anxiety the likes of which he hadn't experienced since his sorting. Did this mean that people would _talk_ to him? That'd he be ushered to spend time in the common room and go to the parties after Quidditch games?

"Really we're all just jealous that we weren't there to see you punch that stupid sneer right off of the ferret's face." Finished Seamus, causing a dawning of realisation inside Harry, though the pressure inside his chest did not subside, if anything getting worse. Before, really only the Gryffindors would pester him about help with their homework. The whole _school_ wanted to punch Draco Malfoy.

He thought Granger would only tell the Professors. Why on earth would she tell everyone else?

"Anyway, we're going to get breakfast and we thought the rest our house would like to meet its Hero. Come down and we'll introduce you to everyone." said Ron, before they all left. Harry's eyes had remained boring a hole into his lap for the duration of the entire interaction. What was he going to do? He wouldn't be able to even go to lessons without being inundated with people making _noise_ and talking to, and about, him. It was going to be awful.

When he was in primary school, Dudley had spread rumours that his parents were in prison and that they abandoned him. For weeks, people would run about to him and talk _at_ him and call him terrible things. No, he did not need a repeat of that experience occurring. No good came of being the subject of public attention.

He'd just have to spend more time in Lupin's classroom, he reasoned. He doubted he could even go to the library without someone trying to talk to him.

Rather than breakfast, Harry instead opted to stay in his dorm until his Potions lesson. He really could've done with the food, with his appetite still sky high after a summer of near-starvation, but Harry thought he would just grit his teeth and bare it.

"Ah, Mister Potter, our new _celebrity_." said Snape as he walked into the classroom. Harry had taken his usual seat next to Tracey Davis, flagrantly ignoring the Gryffindor's attempts for him to sit with them.

Snape continued. "I knew that a son of James Potter couldn't bare not being the centre of attention for too long, though I must admit even your father had the forethought to not resort to physical violence. Do you lack magical ability? Is that why you resort to brawling like a muggle?"

Harry kept his head down, ignoring the rage boiling in his veins. The lesson had to begin at some point, surely. By doing this, he did miss Granger's eyes on him.

"It seems you lack the ability to speak, as well. That shall be ten points from Gryffindor for _dissent of a Professor," c_ ontinued the Potions Professor. Harry kept quiet despite the punishment. The professor was a bully, he wouldn't provide him the reward of a response, even if his words drew rage from Harry. "Luckily for Mr Potter the brewing of potions does not require any skill with a wand, or I fear he'd still be with the first years brewing boils cures."

Laughter broke out amongst the Slytherins. "Now I would not wish to deprive any of the able students of their learning because of Potter's incompetence, so we shall begin today's lesson regarding the theory behind poisons that target the blood, the notes of which can be made using page fourteen of your textbooks. As you are now all fourth years, I shall trust that you can perform adequate independent study, so that is what today's lesson shall entail."

That proved a blessed relief to Harry, as such a lesson was always in absolute silence.

However, the lack of berating did allow his mind to wander to what repercussions would follow from Dumbledore.

The pressure in his chest began anew. The Headmaster had _specifically_ withheld the information because he didn't want Harry to react in such a way. As Harry thought on what he had done, he felt a cold sense of shame. He had watched his cousin Dudley spend his entire childhood tormenting others, usually with physical harm, and the thought that he was in any way comparable to Dudley made his body feel numb.

"Potter, the Headmaster wishes to see you. I believe he said the matter was... _urgent._ " spoke Professor Snape, halting Harry's efforts to leave.

Harry instead resolved to avoid the Headmaster for as long as was possible. Though, when Hogwarts was concerned, that would be one of the more impossible tasks to achieve. The castle was Dumbledore's, the students simply lived there. Harry just hoped that the headmaster was a kind landlord.

His resolution was so assured in fact, that he failed to note the efforts of one Hermione Granger to grab his attention, as he left the dungeons that morning.

* * *

"You know, if you had just _told_ me that you were the fighting type, you could have been up to your knees in witches by now," spoke Tonks, her voice appearing from nowhere, leaving Harry to nearly jump from his skin. "I told you that witches love a bad boy. Plus, that Malfoy's a wanker, so you're both a bad boy and you're providing a service that _everyone_ wanted? I can't believe you're not taking advantage of this. You've been dealt the best hand in the world, it'd be a _crime_ to fold it."

Harry looked up from the assembled parchment at his desk, having taken asylum in one of the lower classrooms in the Astronomy Tower, his usual resting place off limits. It was most perplexing that the school had quite so many disused classrooms as it did. It wasn't as though there was some magical renaissance at any point that required so much room for a great influx of students. The number of wizards per generation within the British Isles had remained roughly the same for as long as the island had been populated by humans. Tonks hovered over him, on that occasion her hair a silvery-blonde, not unlike Fleur Delacour, framing her face in a way that Harry would often think about when his mind wandered.

"I generally try not to be," Harry said, as he gathered his wits. "I'd rather it never have happened."

Tonks rolled her eyes, running her hands through her hair. "Well, the cat's out of the bag on that one, I'm afraid," she said, before taking taking a chair and sitting next to Harry, her front facing the backrest as she rested her elbow on it. Her eyes met Harry's. "So, wanna tell me what happened?"

His eyes fell to the floor. "Not particularly, no." he said. Harry felt her thumb and forefinger grasp his chin, forcing his gaze toward her. Harry thought the action was dangerous, for it was so entirely disarming.

"Please _Harry_ , for me." said Tonks. Harry thought he never really never had a chance, with the way she said his name.

Harry was silent for a moment, weighing how much he should tell her. She was, after all, an Auror and did have an obligation to report everything."Well, I'd just learned some... _things_ about my parents death an-"

"I will not judge anything you did," Tonks interrupted. "Anything short of murder is acceptable under these circumstances."

"Thank you," said Harry, an unknown weight moving off of his shoulders, though another weight lodged itself in his chest. "Well, what I learned implicated Lucius Malfoy. Then, I came across Draco saying truly horrendous things to a muggleborn girl and I just couldn't move the image of my mother in this girl's place and my mind went blank."

Tonks closed the distance, reaching out and taking hold of Harry, hugging him closely to her. He hugged back, the hammering inside his chest subsiding at the contact.

"Like I said Harry, I'll never judge you for what you did," she whispered, having rested her head on his shoulders. They were about the same height, with Harry being tall for his age and Tonks having chosen a particularly lithe frame for that day. "I'd have done far worse. I mean, Sarah Rookwood once said my mum was a blood traitor and she _still_ can't pee properly."

Harry laughed. "I'm certainly glad I didn't do worse. Knowing how influential Malfoy's dad is, he'd probably have me tried as an adult and I'd be on the boat to Azkaban already." He said, his head coming to rest atop Tonks'. It didn't quite fit, with them being both the same height, but he did it anyway.

"He's not quite as powerful as he likes to say he is, you know. He'll run his mouth but really, since You-Know-Who disappeared, Malfoy's views are a lot less popular politically. Most people really only agreed because it's a bit more dangerous to disagree, y'know?" said Tonks. Harry nodded, understanding, which Tonks couldn't see but felt the motion of his head on her hair.

Harry couldn't bring himself to respond, so the pair remained in silence for a time. Harry sat, silently, enjoying the feeling of being held by another person. Tonks was warm in his arms, almost too warm, and she held him with a grip that wouldn't be broken by a dozen giants.

She broke the silence. "I feel like I'm going to make a habit of this," she said. a small laugh coming from her. "But what were you doing before I interrupted you?"

"You know that spell I lost control of? The one that ruined that classroom?" he said, to which Tonks nodded. "I'm just trying to find out more about it, to see if there's anything else I can find in the library."

"And have you found any success?"

"Not really, no. I'm mostly learning what I _don't_ know. And some of it doesn't make any sense at all," said Harry, moving one of his hands from her waist to run a hand through his too-long hair. "At first I thought there would be a new set of wand movements that I needed to learn, but there's just _nothing._ How can you possibly hope to control it if you can't guide it with your wand?"

Tonks paused, her face scrunching up, in what appeared to be discomfort. Harry thought she, much like any sane person, wasn't one for discussion of esoteric magical theory. Then, she smiled. "It's obvious." said Tonks.

"P-pardon?" said Harry, perplexed.

"I hate to say it _Harry_ , but you're being a bit dim really. You're thinking about this far too much like a academic. You're approaching it like Snape would," said Tonks, feeling Harry still in her arms. "I'm sorry! But it's true. You need to think, from what you've told me, the magic you're researching isn't in the same family as the magic that we all usually do. It's more natural. It's wild. So, _you_ have to be wild. You have to act toward your nature."

Harry thought. What was his nature? He'd honestly never asked himself that question. The Dursleys seemed fairly confident as to who he was, then he was a _Wizard_ , which was enough of an identity on its own. He had no idea how he could possibly approach the issue. I mean, who was he?

He held Tonks closer, because he wanted to. Doing things he wanted to seemed to be a good start.

"How do I handle people's attention, _Tonks_?" asked Harry, his voice soft next to her ear. He thought he felt her shiver slightly, but he wasn't sure. Her hair went from the pale blonde it had been, briefly to a warm brown, before back to blonde.

"Just ignore them. The rumour mill will churn out something new in a week anyway," said Tonks, her tone taking a seriousness that he'd never heard before. "I know I say you should be putting yourself out there more, but if that isn't the person that you are, then just don't. Not everyone has to make grand speeches and have a horde of people following them around. Doesn't mean I'm gonna stop teasing ya, though."

Harry knew that if her head were not nestled below his, she'd have winked at him then. "I suppose you're right, I just really hate it. I've been perfectly happy to go largely ignored and then all this happens," he said, an air of frustration overcoming him. "I just can't wait until things go back to the way they're supposed to."

"It'd be very funny if you somehow become famous from this, you know," said Tonks, smiling into Harry's jumper. "There's really no-one quite as ill-suited to fame as Harry Potter."

"I'd be the only one not laughing." said Harry grumpily. Tonks laughed in response.

* * *

Professor McGonagall was halfway out of the door of the staff room when she heard the Headmaster's voice call to her through the room. "Minerva, do you happen to have a moment?"

She and Albus had been friends for nearly half a century by this point. He had been her guiding light in her studies of Transfiguration and without him, she would not have been half the Transfiguration Master she was today. Still, there was something in his tone as he said that made her trepidatious.

"Of course, Albus." she said, turning to face him. The two of them that had lead the staff meeting prior, so it left only the pair in the room as the other Professors had left to attend to other duties.

"The matter I wished to discuss with you was Harry." said Dumbledore. He had subtly transfigured one of the armchairs in the room so that the cushions were more plump, then sank into it.

"Harry? James' son?" asked Professor McGonagall, confusion evident in her every aspect. They had never discussed the boy as anything beyond a normal student. The Headmaster nodded.

"He had an incident with Draco Malfoy earlier this week." began the Headmaster, to which McGonagall nodded in recognition. She had known this. Everyone knew this, it'd been the talk of the school. She'd heard the Weasley twins ask if there were wizarding knighthoods so that the boy be given one.

"I'm aware, Headmaster. I'm not quite sure why that requires discussion," said McGonagall. "After all, most of the student populous has had an _incident_ with Mr Malfoy. The list of people he hasn't at one point or another antagonised is so small it is probably statistically anomalous."

"Unfortunate though that is, Minerva, the issue lies in the _details,_ " said Dumbledore, his tone reminding her that she had been, and she suspected would be, his student. "Harry instigated the altercation, an act that is entirely out of his character. I wonder, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary of the boy this academic year?"

McGonagall thought for a moment, her lips pressed together in a thin line. "No, not at all. He's, to me, the same boy that he's always been. He has his father's aptitude for practical magic, with Lily's academic curiosity and neither of their personality. He's as insular as ever and appears to be content in keeping that way."

The Headmaster rubbed his eyes. "That's in some ways comforting, though in others not." he said.

A thought came to Minerva, the one that always came to her when he thought of the boy. "He still looks...sad, Albus. If you catch him when he's unaware you're looking, he still looks empty, and I don't think that's ever going to change," she said, her words careful. "It's always horrid to look at Lily's eyes and see sadness, Albus."

Dumbledore smiled then, a smile he used when he was talking to a distressed student. "I wouldn't be so definite about that, Minerva. He's their son, after all. They were remarkable in their ability to find joy even in the darkest of times and I think that particular trait may have just been passed along to him. He may simply need a reason to find it."

A glimmer of something appeared inside the Deputy Headmistress' eye then. "I hope so, Albus." she said.

It occurred to Minerva that Albus may have a soft spot for the boy, though he'd never mentioned the fourth year as anything more than another student. Perhaps Albus saw something of himself inside the boy, she wondered.

"Hope is a wonderful thing, Minerva. I'm glad you possess some of it," he said, standing from his chair, incredibly spry for such an aged man. "One more thing, Minerva. What do you know of the Northern Magics?"

Even for the incredibly peculiar Headmaster, that question was strange. "They're an incredibly cumbersome, esoteric and all-consuming school of magic. So all-consuming, in fact, that many have wasted their entire lives trying to master a single spell. They have no real practical application and they've been out of common use for longer than these walls have _stood_. In fact, nearly all of the tomes that discuss them have either been lost to history or confounded out of modern academic knowledge."

A polite smile took over the Headmaster's face. "As I suspected, you know as much as I do," he said, his blue eyes with mischief. "I just thought that it might interest you to know that Harry has been able to perform one of the lesser arts, at _fourteen_."

Shock overtook McGonagall. How had she not noticed such a talent in her class? However, shock quickly made way to dread as she recalled one other thing she knew of the art.

"A-are you aware of the other name the art is known by, Headmaster?" she asked, something dreadful and bleak in her tone. Albus seemed to either not notice or simply ignored it, for his polite smile remained.

"No, Minerva, I'm not. Perhaps you could enlighten me?" he asked, his blue eyes bright as ever as he looked at the Transfiguration Master.

"T-they're known as the _Helian_ Magics, Professor." she said, her voice almost a whisper, though her words carried danger. A strange look overcame Dumbledore, then, unlike anything Minerva had ever seen in the many decades they had known one another.

" _Helian_ , you say?" he asked, his voice intensely weary suddenly. Professor McGonagall thought she appeared how he felt, for entire being was downcast and fearful.

"Yes, Headmaster. _Helian_." she said, her voice matching his.

"Oh, _Gods._ "

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Again, please review so that my writing can improve.**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello everyone.**

 **Sorry for the delay, uni and life got in the way.**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I appreciate any and all reviews.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

Thankfully, thought Harry, the collective hive mind of Hogwarts could not focus on anything for long, especially when such a thing shucked their interest so absolutely. It was not long at all, under the gentle coaxing of Harry's total avoidance, to focus elsewhere.

Elsewhere, in this case, being the ancient, primordial goblet that was wreathed in flame that Harry knew to be of pure magic that stood atop a dais in the great hall, guarded by Dumbledore's own magic.

It was quite the artifact, and though no-one knew of its true potential, or original use, it had a _strangeness_ to it. It was almost magnetic; people who had no desire nor intention of approaching it would be drawn to the goblet like it sang a siren's call straight to their soul. Harry had missed the assembly that everyone had been talking about - usually people near to his age, voices rankled in youthful anger at not being able to _prove their worth -_ but he'd had to have been deaf to not hear about the rules for entry into the tournament.

Harry had taken to walking through the castle during the evening. It was a time most spent in the common rooms, or in the older year's cases in broom closets, so the hallways provided solace. He enjoyed the process of walking through the halls and feeling solid, ancient stones beneath his feet. He'd never really had a home before, and unlike most that found theirs at Hogwarts he couldn't find it in his common room or in the libraries, but in his mind he could not recall another time he felt quite so safe as when he meandered about the forgotten pathways, the overlooked in-betweens, of the castle.

However, as he often had found in recent weeks, all roads did indeed lead to Rome. Or, in this particular case, to the Goblet of Fire. He'd watched a number of people put their names into contention; often, the ones sought to challenge themselves and see their potential, rather than hound glory, would come in these quiet evenings. Some times, did not even put their names in at all. More than once, he'd watched someone, concealing their identity, just circle about the artifact, tracing the outline of Dumbledore's protection with their gait. Harry had thought of telling the Headmaster about it, but his self-imposed exile prevented that.

Harry liked to sit within the Great Hall during these evenings; in truth, he liked to be in the hall itself. The roof, often taken for granted by familiarity, simply must be seen to be believed. The entire was beautiful, that could not be contested. Even the most ardently pretentious would struggle to find fault in it. In truth, the only reason he was not their more was that others shared his interest.

He'd taken to bringing his sketchbook with him on these walks. Well, he'd taken to bringing it with him all the time because it reminded Harry of _Tonks_ , but its presence by his side was in this case _purposeful_. He liked to draw the castle; he had no idea why the impulse to do such a thing was present with him, it wasn't as if the castle was going anywhere, after all.

This night however was different. On this evening, he couldn't help but be transfixed with the Goblet. He knew, _knew_ , without a shade of doubt or hesitation that he must capture it. He hadn't even spent any time in the library that late-afternoon, a great rarity, and in his itching to follow this compulsion had caught a great number of Durmstrang students putting forth their names.

The goblet seemed to mean more to the students of Durmstrang than anyone else. To Harry, it appeared that in their eyes, to see the Goblet, to be weighed and measured by it, was the true goal. The true challenge. All of the tournament that occurred afterward appeared as an afterthought in the face of the primordial chalice. Moreover, they did not just toss their names in like those of his own school, with their friends cheers at their back and a grin on their face. No, their was a near-ceremony to their entry. They approached the goblet with _reverie_ , total care apparent in their every action. It was not uncommon to hear prayers muttered below their breath, though they were not to any God Harry recognised, but to Gods of iron and wood and Teutonic myth.

In respect of this, Harry waited until he had a private audience with the artifact before he began to sketch it. He did not use colour, for no artists rendition could hope to capture its flame and Harry was not arrogant enough to think he ever could.

The design of the thing was fascinating. He knew he could spend decades trying to see, and to capture each hidden intricacy, each edge and curve that must have been painstakingly crafted onto the artifact. Most of the wood on it had been inscribed with runes doing _Merlin-knows_ what and probably imbuing it with enough power to kill everyone in the northern hemisphere should it choose to. The striking thing about them was the _familiarity_ Harry felt with those runes, though.

Harry found that magical items were often so difficult, so _painstaking_ , to recreate in art. Perhaps, it was magic itself telling Harry that some things were to only be formed once, that to try and repeat that which should not be repeated was banal. Or, more likely to Harry's mind, he did not possess the talent to draw such magnificent things.

Despite said thoughts, Harry he was beginning to commit such a folly, starting as he so often did to lose himself within his mind, altogether overcome with focus into creating - to forming art and beauty - that he did not immediately recognise that his privacy had been broken. The silence of his mind was not pierced by the quiet footfalls of his unknown companion, their steps quietened within the hall. He had studied the Goblet so intensely for a number of days, so it was not often that he found himself looking upward to be reminded of its form.

However it was on one such occasion, as the flames of blue magic were so impossible to capture, that he looked up to capture his would-be companion. Harry recognised who it was immediately.

It was a hooded figure - the _same_ hooded figure that had come to the Goblet so many times before. From the distance Harry was from them, he could not tell exactly who the person was, but he knew from the set of their shoulders and the measure of their steps that it was the very same person.

Harry knew this wasn't good, that no good could come from their doing. In his mind, he berated his inaction at telling Dumbledore about this when he had more of a chance. Yet still, the would-be assailant did not yet do anything, simply contenting themselves with pacing the age line, their wand held at their side.

Harry knew then that me must get help; he simply must alert a staff member to what was happening. From the size of the person, and Harry's total lack of recognition, he knew that they were not a student nor a staff member. He wished then more than ever that he had more ability with concealment charms, for he knew that the cloaked figure would no doubt notice any attempt he made to escape.

Instead, he waited at a distance from the Goblet, awaiting any sign of action. He did not think such a person would be outmatched by a fourth year such as himself, but he thought he might be able to catch them unaware if he was careful. Harry slowly approached the dais that the artifact stood upon, to ensure that if anything _was_ happening, he would be able to hear it.

His intuition was rewarded when, ten yards or so from the Goblet, he broke through the telltale barrier of a muffling charm and heard the assailants mutterings, their attention still thankfully entirely upon the powerful item.

"...Hmm...Well, the master said...confounding charms, but then again he _is_ more powerful than I...Perhaps if I were to get Wormtail and that wretched potions monkey with me, we would be able to do it..." Said the cloaked figure, who's voice was distinctly male, holding an accent he heard from many well-to-do purebloods. There was an air of frenzy to his words, and Harry could not tell if they were the crazed words of a madman totally removed from reality, or one just far gone enough to do damage. "Or...Perhaps, if I were not to confound it at all...No an illusion..."

He trailed off, leaving Harry's mind racing with possibility. He knew not what half of the things this insane person was talking about were, but the half he did understand did not bode well for anyone. He knew then that he would have to stop this man, at _all_ costs.

What he did not realise, however, was that the damage had already been done. So far gone was the man's mind, that he did not think before he acted; instead, Harry realised, by the time he could act, the cloaked man had already cast his magic upon the Goblet.

Satisfied, the hooded figure skulked from the Great Hall, not once noticing Harry, without leaving a single scrap of evidence that he was ever there. The Goblet looked no different, it's primordial flame had not altered, yet Harry _knew_ it had been tampered with.

* * *

Harry could not stop repeating what had happened in his mind.

It just did not make any sense, he thought. There was no spell, no flash of light or any outward reaction from the Goblet. For all he _knew,_ there was no evidence at all that the crazed man had done anything at all. For all he _knew,_ it was all just the dream of an overacting imagination - there was no force he trusted more than his own mind, save perhaps Albus Dumbledore, but the thought of what happened still seemed absurd to Harry when he thought on it for so long.

And, moreover, he _did_ think on it long. Harry did not wish to go to the Headmaster with a half-formed idea of what happened. He didn't want the Headmaster thinking poorly of him, so he resolved to make sure he himself could rationalise what had occurred before he attempted to convince the Headmaster of it.

However, the issue proved to be an arduous one. He tried to sketch the night from his minds eye, as he found that he often found all things were clearer when one could _see_ the problem, but it did not help.

It was on one such occasion, as Harry desperately, for the good of the school, tried to understand what _exactly_ had happened, that his deep focus was intruded by a _deeply_ unwanted voice.

"There you are!" Exclaimed one Hermione Granger, altogether too loudly for either Harry's, or Madam Pince's, liking. "Do you not realise how long I have spent looking for you?"

Yes I do, thought Harry, as I have an altogether good grasp of how long I have been avoiding you.

Instead of saying such a thing, Harry remained silent. Partly because he'd once heard that if you ignore problems for long enough they go away, and mostly because he knew from the irritation present on Granger's face that she was not yet finished.

"It's been _days_ since what had happened, Harry. Do you not understand how monumentally stupid what you did was? Draco could've gotten you expelled for what you did. And worse, if McGonagall had caught you, you'd never have a chance at getting any qualifications _ever again_. It just wasn't worth it Harry, and you _shouldn't_ have done it," Granger continued. Harry ignored the fairly condescending tone, mostly because it was the one she used most of the time. "I wasn't in _that_ much trouble, anyway Harry. They do that sort of thing all the time, and I always turn out fine."

And, try as he might, Harry just _couldn't_ ignore that, because he was fairly sure that she had just said that bullying wasn't something that should have consequences, which is something that just _didn't_ make sense to him. Because, if he knew anything about Hermione, it was that she stood up for _fairness_. Which meant only one thing, and that one thing made Harry _angry_.

For the first time, Harry raised his eyes from the assorted papers in front of him, and looked at Hermione. Truly _looked_ at her. The bristling attitude was at the foreground, but behind that was something that unnerved him: fear. She was _afraid_ of them - of Draco, of the Slytherins, of the bullies that tormented her. It was so unsettling to Harry; that this brave, outspoken person could hold such a feeling for people so thoroughly undeserving of her fear.

The mystery could wait, Harry thought. Some things were _far, far_ more important.

Harry understood, rather instinctively, why she was afraid. She was, much the same as him, raised amongst muggles. Which meant you were always hyper-aware of those who were bigger than you. Harry himself had learned early that he was safer running from his cousin than antagonising him. Hermione herself was not tall, or athletic like some their age - if Harry were to describe her accurately, he'd say she was _tiny._ He remembered from his memory of the night that she was dwarfed when she stood next to Draco's companions, and he _understood_ her feelings.

Understanding, however, was not acceptance.

Something _changed_ in his mind then, when he looked upon Hermione. Because he could _not_ accept that. All irritation at her presence was lost immediately, sent away and placed on an entirely different person.

"How long has this been happening?" He asked, his voice surprising even himself.

"W-what, I-I mean - that's hardly relevant now is it?" She asked, shocked and surprised.

"How long has this been happening, Hermione?" He repeated, staring straight into her eyes. They looked at one another for a moment, Harry's actions continually surprising himself, before her eyes fell to her shoes.

"Well I don't suppose it ever really stopped, really," said Hermione, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. "It's nothing too terrible, all things considered. It doesn't happen _that_ often, and they never hurt me. Just annoying, more than anything."

"But that's not the point, Hermione," said Harry. "They _shouldn't_ be allowed to do that to you. What I did was not okay, but what they do isn't any better."

" _Did,_ actually."

"What do you mean?"

Hermione smiled for a moment, before remembering herself. "Well, after you did that to them, they haven't done anything to me since," she said. "But that doesn't make what you did okay! In fact, it's worse because they'll come for you now and Draco's father's a powerful person and he could have terrible things be done to you and-"

"Hermione."

"-Really, it's not that worth it. I mean, I am grateful, but I'm not really worth the effort and-"

"Hermione." said Harry, slightly more forcefully this time. Hermione's jaw slammed shut, near audibly, and her gaze returned to her shoes. "I did it. It happened. There are some things you can't allow to happen, and that was one of them. If anything, I'm sorry I didn't stop him sooner. You shouldn't _ever_ have to go through that. _Ever_."

"I-I Just - I j-just don't understand, Harry," said Hermione, after a moment. "Why are you behaving like this? You've never been like this before."

"I don't know, Hermione," he replied, earnestly. "But now I know about what Draco's doing, I'm not going to stand idly by and allow it. I _promise_ that."

There was silence, after that. Both Harry and Hermione stood there, in silence, both still surprised by Harry's outburst. It was odd, but there was definitely something that passed between them in those moments. An understanding, perhaps, dawned on the both of them after what had been said and done.

"Thank you, Harry," said Hermione, smiling bashfully. He didn't quite know what to say, so grinned back. "Erm, you wouldn't mind if I sat with you, would you? It's just I _need_ to get started on Professor Vector's homework - have you started that, by the way? - and everywhere else is occupied."

Harry didn't need to look around the library to know that there were empty chairs and even empty tables, pretty much everywhere, but for once he didn't hesitate to nod, his hand gesturing at the seat across the table from him. His mind was suddenly struck with a thought, forgotten until then.

"Hermione, would you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?" Asked Harry, bold in his innocence. Then, realisation dawned upon him at the insinuation. "I-I just mean that if you intended on going anyway, that Draco would probably be there and it's better to be safe than sorry."

Hermione seemed to be caught off guard, but her eyes took in the blush of his cheeks. "I-Well, I mean I wouldn't that at all. It'd be quite nice actually," she said, a warm smile on her lips. "It'd be nice going with a friend."

* * *

After that afternoon, the pair seemed drawn to one another more. It wasn't ever on purpose, but they simply ended up gravitating toward one another. Harry found that she was not a terrible companion when they studied in the library - much like him, she was much too distracted by whatever book she was reading to truly be difficult company - and they both silently resolved to sit next to one another whenever they were both in Madam Pince's domain.

During lessons, much was the same. They were not popular people, after all, and so no-one missed their company. Harry did not mind sitting at the very front of a class, unlike the rest of their peers, so he found himself sitting next to Hermione more often than not. They didn't talk often, but if there was ever a time they were to work in groups, there was never a question as to who they would work with.

It wasn't an ordinary companionship, but it was theirs.

Hence, that was why he found himself directly underneath the _ever-_ watchful eye of Professor Moody. He'd grown to enjoy the auror's lessons - even if he didn't enjoy them whilst they occurred, as they were often arduous and left him with a horrid awareness of just how dirty this magic world was - when compared to the prior alternatives, there was no doubt they were very beneficial.

"Now children, you're in for a rare treat today," began Professor Moody, with a tone that Harry didn't enjoy. He didn't know what the auror thought was a treat, but he wouldn't be surprised if he started casting bombarding curses and making them dodge. "See, Dumbledore didn't want this to happen. Said you were too young. Your eyes too innocent to be dirtied by such a thing. Know what I say?

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" He bellowed, before retrieving a box from within his desk. He unlocked it - a process that took a three keys and more unlocking charms than Harry suspected he knew spells in total. "These are black widow spiders. Harmless enough, from a distance. Did you know some say they can't feel pain?"

Nonetheless, Professor Moody placed three spiders on the desk, using a gnarled hand to gently and carefully guide them onto the wood. "Now, what you're going to learn about today is something I suspect some of you won't be hearing for the first time," said Moody, his blue eyes fixing upon Susan Bones, who's aunt was rumoured to be about as paranoid as Mad-eye himself. Then again, there'd been seven assassination attempts on her in as many years, so at what point did paranoia become logical analysis?

"Now, for the benefit of the Muggle-borns," said the Professor, conjuring a piece of chalk and beginning to write on the blackboard behind his desk. "In our world, not all spells are created equal. See, if you were an academic sort, you'd argue that point - I'm sure Granger here wants to. But the simple fact is that some spells are better, or worse, than others. So, we treat them different.

"For example, you don't get sent to Azkaban for casting a cheering a charm at an auror you're dueling, even if does distract them for long enough for you to slip a cutting charm through their defenses and kill them," continued Mad-Eye, looking strangely solemn. "No, there are certain curses that carry certain consequences - consequences that befit their nature."

Harry could see Hermione frantically recording all that this mad auror was saying. He didn't mirror her- mostly because he'd read ahead on the standard book of spells, and heard much of what he said in the NEWT books. He knew that she had too - it was odd still, that she still forced herself to copy the words of professors, even if she knew those words held no value.

"The worst of any of the curses, as I'm sure most of you are aware, are the _unforgivable_ curses. Anyone know why they're called that?" Moody asked.

"Because they are, in their very nature, unforgivable. If you're found casting them, you are sent to Azkaban without trial," said Neville Longbottom, his voice oddly monotonous.

"Quite right, Longbottom. Though, if they had the same effect on everyone else as they did on you, they wouldn't be called that long," said Moody, chuckling entirely to himself. "Now, as everyone _ought_ to know, there are three so-called unforgivable curses. As we're on the subject of Longbottom, let's start with the most famous one. Care to enlighten us, Longbottom?"

"Not particularly, Professor," said Neville, from behind Harry. "But I will. The Cruciatus Curse, also known as the torture curse, can cause a multitude of reactions in its recipient, but the most usual of which is total, _agonising_ pain. The recipient is rendered entirely incapacitated and powerless, and cannot move for the pain they receive. Extended exposure can cause insanity, total loss of their ability to recognise the outside world, and in some circumstances, death. It is fatal to infants, and has been in all but one case.

"Is that what you wanted, Professor?" Finished Neville, before standing and walking out from the classroom, leaving a stunned class behind.

"Quite, Longbottom. Quite enough," said Mad-eye, a regretful look upon his gnarled face that appeared wrong to Harry's eyes. "Well, there's nothing left to do but move to the next curse. I shan't ask one of you to answer again.

"The Imperius curse, named as such because it gives the caster total control on whoever has the misfortune to have it cast upon them. Unlike the other two it can be fought, but fighting it goes about as well as fighting Albus Dumbledore. And even if you do fight it, your attacker now knows you're dangerous. We no longer tell auror recruits to fight the spell after the last war.

"And finally, the third and final unforgivable curse is the Killing Curse," continued Mad-eye, writing its name on the blackboard and vanishing the chalk back to where it came from. "It is a far less popular spell than the other two as it wasn't used as heavily in any of the major wars of recent times, like the other two. You wouldn't see Gellart or any of his cronies using it, for damn sure.

"Ghosts that fell victim to it have said it grants immediate, nearly painless death. Unlike the other two, there's not a great deal of hatred required to use it. Power's needed, sure - I doubt anyone here could do much to my _Grandmother_ , and she's dead already - but you don't have to _mean_ it like the other two. There's been talk of legalising it on a more permanent basis for law officials, but the ministry deemed to _threatening_ a step to take. Hah. Isn't the purpose of the aurors to threaten criminals? Seems to me that we need all the help we can get."

Moody cleared his desk, moving the assorted materials he'd brought to the lesson back into his bag. Many took it as their cue to do the same, packing their bags. "There is one more thing, however," said Moody. "No-one's ever lived through one. Not one. Not ever. It doesn't matter if you're Merlin himself, if you find yourself on the wrong end of a green light, your time is drawn to a swift and immediate end. So, if in the future you find yourself saying the words, remember to think twice about what it is you're about to do.

"I was going to show you what they're like, _visually_ , but I think that might be a step too far for today. I'll let you go early, on the provision that you do a little research into how these spells came to be. No homework for that, just read a book for a while. Now get out, before I change my mind."

As the rest of the class scampered out of the classroom, Hermione drew up next to Harry - an oddity despite their recently forays in friendship. They hadn't reached the _talking_ stage, it seemed.

"That was an odd lesson," said Hermione, more to herself than anything else. "I really didn't expect Neville to react like that. He's usually so stoic when it comes to that sort of thing."

"Maybe Neville knew Moody before he came to teach here; he might've expected him to not ask at all." replied Harry, more out of expectation than interest as they walked down the long Defence corridor which lead to the Grand Staircase.

" _Professor_ Moody," corrected Hermione. "Maybe. Still, it was very odd. And what he said about the Imperius Curse? I've never read anything like that before. Most books say you should try and fight it for as long as possible."

Harry silently agreed, nodding his head. "I don't know enough about the subject to argue with Moody - he's the most experienced man in the world at Defence. I imagine he's probably seen enough to know better than any author."

Hermione looked aghast at such a proposition, but there was no rebuke. "I don't know. I'm going to see what I can find out about it in the library. Are you going to come along too?" She asked, with a smile.

A strange thought occurred to Harry that ordinarily, a question like that would send him running for the hills, but such a fear wasn't there with Hermione. He just wanted to make sure she wasn't assaulted by Draco on the way to the halls of knowledge. "Okay." Replied Harry, leading the way to the library corridor.

* * *

"Do come in, Harry," called Dumbledore's voice through his office door, surprising Harry. He half expected to be forced to start reciting dog breeds as he had once done in his first year.

It'd taken a while, and quite a lot of self-will, but he'd finally managed to go to Dumbledore. The office door swung open, revealing a familiar office. On this night, however, he could not content himself with allowing his mind to become ensnared with thoughts of the many ancient and antique artifacts that littered the office. No, the only antique that held his thoughts in this room had a grey beard and half-moon spectacles. That very antique sat behind his desk, not a single piece of legislature or parchment in front of him.

No, there was not the pile of books that usually accompanied their many talks; the direction where the Headmaster's eyes would often drift. It was a comforting presence, as when he'd been younger and far less social than he was now, Harry found the full and undivided attention of the man to be overwhelming and uncomfortable.

Such a feeling he was intimately familiar with tonight, for the wizened man's piercing blue eyes held laser focus.

"So, Harry," began Professor Dumbledore, and Harry could feel the dread creep within his stomach at the sound of older man's voice. "I find myself at an issue that I think you might find cause to help me with. Would that be possible, do you think?"

Harry sank slightly into his chair before nodding at the question.

"So, I shan't insult your intelligence by lying to you, so I will endeavor to be as honest as possible," said Dumbledore, and Harry had never heard his voice quite so serious. "Firstly, am I a bad person?"

Harry was shaken by that, confusion etched into his face. "Of course not, Professor. Y-you've been a very good person to me, for as long as I've known you."

Dumbledore briefly glanced at the ground before his eyes righted themselves onto Harry once more. "Secondly, have I wronged you in any way?"

Again, Harry was confused. "I-I don't think so Professor. Really, Headmaster, I don't understand how this is rele-"

This time, Dumbledore raised his hand to stop talking. "Thirdly, do you understand the English language?"

"Of course I do, Professor, but I don't under-"

"Fourthly, do you understand that despite the fact whilst at one point the Wizarding world was a feudal one, it has not been for nearly a millennia?"

"Yes I do, but-"

"And that the only method of time travel is a time turner, and not taking out your frustrations on unwilling bystanders?"

"Yes, I do."

A clear vein of irritation became known on Dumbledore's face. "Then, Mr Potter, I'm afraid you haven't been any help at all in clearing my confusion," said the Headmaster.

A crack appeared in his controlled visage, the barest _fraction_ of what the man truly possessed, and Harry knew immediately why Hogwarts had not been threatened for seventy years.

"Perhaps then, _Harry_ , you would be able to enlighten me as to _why_ you did what you did," finished Dumbledore.

"I don't know, Professor," said Harry, staring into the carpet of the office.

"You don't know?" Asked Dumbledore, leaning forward slightly, the change in his presence forcing Harry to raise his eyes to meet his.

"I just don't know," Harry said, weakly. "After I heard what you said, I just didn't know what to do. Then I saw what Draco was doing to Hermione and I just don't know."

"What Mr Malfoy was doing to Miss Granger?" Questioned Dumbledore.

"I was just _so angry_ and after seeing that, I couldn't stand idly by."

Dumbledore sat back in his chair contemplatively. "You misunderstand me, Harry. There had been no mention of Draco's action - in fact when Professor Snape came forward with what had happened, your actions were described as entirely unprovoked."

Harry wanted to punch something, but he doubted that two wrongs made a right. He had expected Hermione to be the coming forward, not for Draco to tell the world with what had happened. "He had her trapped against a wall with Crabbe and Goyle. I didn't know what they were going to do, but I couldn't sit still and find out."

A small, near imperceptible change happened in the set of Dumbledore's jaw, in the look of his blue eyes, the posture of his spine. He settled. "This certainly changes matters," said the Headmaster, his voice far softer than before. "You understand that this cannot go unpunished, Harry?" He nodded, resigned. "Why didn't you come forth before, Harry? I had no choice but to assume the worst in you, based on your avoiding me."

"That's not the reason I'm here, Headmaster," replied Harry, sheepishly. "It's about the tournament. Well, the Goblet, more specifically."

"And I take it this isn't to complain about the age limit, like others in your year?" Asked Dumbledore, a the faintest stream of their usual familiarity returning to his voice.

"I think someone is trying to confound the Goblet, and to put students in danger," said Harry, his face stony and impassive. "I saw someone, I don't know who, come to look at the Goblet a few nights ago. I know they were trying to confound it then but they couldn't, and I think if we don't do anything, they might succeed."

Dumbledore, stroked his beard between his thumb and forefinger, weighing his words. "And you are sure that they wish to confound the Goblet?"

"Absolutely sure, Professor."

"Thank you for coming forward, Harry," He said, the wheels in his head no doubt already turning. "I'll make sure nothing comes of this. Thank you."

Harry nodded, exhaling a breath he did not realise he was holding. He made a motion to leave the room; this was so unlike his usual talks with the Headmaster. He'd gotten so used to the Headmaster's friendship that he had forgotten that the man had far greater concerns beyond Harry alone. Perhaps, thought Harry, that they would both be better served if they ignored what had happened. Harry would take his medicine, Dumbledore would save the world as he no doubt every second day, and life would become normal.

As Harry reached the door, Dumbledore called out to him. "Why didn't you come forward before, Harry?" He asked. "You mentioned that you'd known about this for a few days now."

At that, Harry was flustered. However, it did not last long. This was the Headmaster, after all. "I was worried of what you would think, Professor."

Finally, Dumbledore's eyes softened, looking upon him as he had once done the very first time they had met, some years ago. "Oh, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Your outburst was not commendable, I recognise, but I would not think of you so lowly. It has been a while, but I was once a young man too. I understand, truly I do."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Always, Harry."

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this. If you have any thoughts, please review so that I can improve.**

 **Thank you.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi all.**

 **So, this is the next chapter. It's quite a lot longer than the other ones, and I quite enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think.**

 **As always, reviews are massively appreciated. Thank you for continuing to read my story.**

 **Also, as an aside, I've recently gone through the older chapters and finally edited them so that parts of them now make sense and aren't filled with grammatical errors. I can't believe how bad they are, and I'm glad you all stuck around after reading them; they should hopefully be much better now. I used to write chapters and post them without proof-reading, and I know now that I needed to rectify my mistakes. Some plot-holes are also fixed, so this story should hopefully make a little more sense. If any of you could go back and read the older chapters and see if I've missed anything and if I have, tell me, that'd be greatly appreciated.**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"It just doesn't make any sense!" Hermione exclaimed, for what must have been the fourth time in as many minutes, almost entirely without response from Harry, and the boy in question was beginning to understand why it was he'd avoided interacting with other people for quite so long.

They'd taken to spending a good deal of their free time together, usually in the library; he'd still go off to work on his spellwork and she'd often ask of where he'd be going, but he'd not told her. Hermione would leave at strange intervals too, though hers were usually for meetings for the various clubs she was a member of.

Yet still, he'd hadn't quite been able to switch off from this. Hermione couldn't seem to move beyond Moody's lesson last week - quite a few people couldn't either, though that was more due to Neville's reaction than any academic inquiry - and Hermione had persisted on talking often _and_ loudly about it to anyone close enough to hear. Which meant Harry.

It made him anxious, more than anything. He'd thought going into this quasi-friendship that there'd be less talking and more sitting near one another in silence, but it wasn't to be. Well, he _did_ spent long periods of time in silence. It seemed as though she felt a compulsion to talk near-constantly, often without reprieve, however she had began to notice that he did not enjoy conversation quite so much as she so clearly seemed to. It seemed that this new-found friendship was a learning experience for the pair of them, thought Harry.

"Hmm." Harry said, more out of habit than anything.

"If all the conventional literature say that you _should_ fight against it, why would Professor Moody say you shouldn't?" continued Hermione, and Harry was once more beginning to think of suitable methods of getting out of the library, newfound friendship be damned.

This only has to continue for one more day, thought Harry. After that, the rock and hard place of Tonks' challenge would no longer be there, and he could go back to his own company without consequence. Harry was confused by Tonks' challenge weighing so heavily upon him, but he could not help it. Every time he thought of her, the thought of disappointing her made his chest feel as though it'd been hit by a hammer. He'd simply have to gut out the lingering torture that was human interaction, if it meant that Tonks would still think of him.

However, the evening had already worn on Harry too much. "I'm going to go to have an early night," replied Harry, abruptly standing up, allowing Hermione free reign of the library.

"Are you sure Harry?" asked Hermione, eyes raised and her brow furrowing beneath her mane of hair. "You never usually go to bed this early. Are you feeling under the weather? I hope you're not. Are you going to be alright for tomorrow? Do you have some potion in your dorm? You know what, we'll just get some at Hogsmeade tomorrow and you'll be okay."

Rather than answer, and as he was totally without the energy or wherewith-all to do so, he simply nodded once to her in a manner that he hoped displayed an appropriate emotion, and left to his dorm.

He preferred not to think about tomorrow's activities at all, in truth. Tonks had been asked to go back to the ministry to report on her job, and perform her other auror duties for the week, so he hadn't seen her in person for a while. He'd sent her a letter, telling her that he was going to Hogsmeade, and it was with another person of the opposite sex, and that they were going as friends - and that he knew it was not what she had _decreed_ but he didn't care - and that he still hated the very idea of it all. She'd sent back a message detailing that male and female teenagers simply _couldn't_ be friends for very long without wanting to wear the face off of one another, and that she expected them to visit Madam Pudifoot's to truly capture the experience.

Harry spent the walk from the library to his dorm wondering what Tonks' teenage years were like, and if she had been as immune to awkwardness then as she was now.

Harry hadn't often enjoyed spending time in his chambers; it was never truly _his_ bedroom, after all. In his mind, he'd thought of this as the property of the others. They spent nearly all of their free time there; either working on homework, or conspiring for pranks or, as had become more common in the past year or so, how to pull girls.

It had first began in his first year at Hogwarts; Harry, wide-eyed and eager to learn, had spent some of his free time in an empty corridor, trying to commit the wrist actions used in Transfiguration to his muscle memory. After he'd gone back to the Gryffindor quarters, the four of them had already made a den out of their bed-linens, their voices loud enough that Harry heard them the moment he walked into the dorm-room, and he knew then that it wasn't his place.

Now, three years later, Harry was the best at Transfiguration, and they were _the_ group in the year. He had his retreats. They had the dorm room.

That night, however, was another matter entirely. His bed looked like the holy grail in his minds eye; his body didn't feel extraordinarily exhausted, his muscles were not crying out for a reprieve, yet every thought in his mind told him that he _needed_ to rest. Perhaps, thought Harry, it was the additional time he had spent in Lupin's room, the constant strain of failing at a goal that had engrossed him, was the reason.

The search for information on Northern Magics had proved fruitless; all of the tangible evidence pointed to the school of thought being simply a wasteful, inefficient idea that was simply the evidence of the ideas of a bygone era. Yet, _something_ from deep within Harry forced him to think otherwise. He had no evidence to prove otherwise, but he simply knew there was more to it than that. Perhaps, thought Harry sadly, it was _he_ who was the problem, and that if he were someone more worthy of wielding it, the search would be more fruitful.

Nonetheless, he'd spent countless hours in continual exhaustion, forming nothing more than dust and vapour and feats of nothing more than illusion, and had only the lingering tiredness behind his eyes to show for it. And he was beginning to run out of ideas and options. He just _knew_ it was possible, and the very fact that it was so within reach yet continued to evade his grasp was more than agonising.

Harry didn't even bother to remove his shirt and tie before getting into bed, only just remembering to take off his glasses before his head clattered into the pillows. And, as he fell into Morpheus' realms, he considered that he may have to consult Professor McGonagall if he continued to fail.

* * *

 _All around him was death. All within him was death. And yet here, here was his domain._

 _The air was thick with the smell of sulphur, and in his veins his blood burned with the call to arms. Behind him, the gates of Valhalla remained shut, and the oncoming horde could do naught but ensure their own failure as one by one, they all fell at his feet._

 _He did not know how long he had been there, but it did not matter. Time had no meaning now; no one could escape him. He would not age, as those that once surrounded him aged. It did not matter who fell before him first, before the end all who stood against him would receive their fate by his hand. As it must be. As it_ _ **always**_ _would be._

 _Above him, the clouds parted and forks of lighting came from above. One, two, three forks piercing holes into the swaths of their enemies. Beside him, trickery and chaos was afoot as minds were ensnared, devouring themselves and turning on one another, their friends having no choice but to watch as they fell victim to their own failings._

 _And yet, nothing could compare to the sight of_ him _. He sliced through them without a thought. Without an effort. As though it were his purpose. And it **was**. _

_In the distance he could not yet see an end to the oncoming horde, butt that did not matter. With the masters of nature and chaos beside him, they could conquer any army that dared to stand before him. They could conquer worlds. They could conquer_ _ **realms**_ _._

 _He squared his shoulders. If it were to be his destiny, he would gladly accept it. There was nothing that excited him more. Let others have their glory, their names carved into statues and crowns placed upon their heads, kisses from princesses on their cheeks and spoils of war at their feet. This was his spoil; to guard the souls of the good was every spoil he would ever desire._

 _No man would be greater than he. No man could be greater than he._

 _And, in every direction, as far as his eye could see, it was not the black cloud of death that he could see. It was not the rivers of blood that gushed around his boots, irrigating the meadow of bodies like fields of wheat. He did not see the whites of his enemies' eyes as their life ran away from them._

 _No, for all he could see was_ _ **green**_ _._

* * *

Harry woke, with a start. His heart was pounding and his body covered in sweat.

What _was_ that?

Immediately, he ran to the toilet and relieved the contents of his stomach. His entire body shook as he did so, seemingly unable to withstand what it was that had happened within his dream. His heart beat erratically, his chest straining as it nearly burst free; his mind was racing.

Frantically, Harry fought to control himself. _It's just a dream_ , he told himself. _It wasn't real_.

Never before had he experienced quite such a sensation, and with all of his mind he tried to retain his sense of reality but it was a losing effort.

 _It was just a dream._

It did not feel like a dream, however. Not in the least. It felt...Real. Real in a way that nothing that was actually real had ever been, yet he knew it was just in his head. The sulphur that he could _feel_ singeing his nose was not actually there, no matter how intensely his nose burned. He told himself that, repeatedly, but it seemed no use. His mind simply would not accept that.

There was just so much _blood_. So much devastation, and pain and suffering. It was _not_ real, but it felt as though the blood that fell, fell because of him. Something deep, something unshakable, told him that.

His chest continued to pound; it felt like his heart was the powering a locomotive that had lost control. On and on, his heart pounded and pounded. Harder and harder.

 _It was just a dream,_ he told himself. Nothing changed. _But why did it feel like it wasn't?_

Harry had never experienced something quite like that before, and he hoped, beyond _all_ hope, he never would again. Ever. His shirt was drenched, his whole body dripping with sweat. Quickly, he glanced out to the bedroom and checked that everyone was fast asleep. His watch told him that it was, in fact, 3am; a point proved by the crescent moon that he could see peering through the curtains.

With all of his heart, he tried to calm his ragged breaths and quell the pounding of his heart. He knew, intellectually, that he was just having a panic attack; it was just his body acting as a response to his anxiety, yet no amount of _knowing_ did him any good. He needed everything to just _slow down_ , and yet all his body wanted to do was speed up. Faster and faster, his heart did beat and for all the world he felt like he was train that'd lost its brakes.

He tried, he _tried_ , to breathe deeply, forcing with every ounce of himself to draw deep breathes full of air into his flaming lungs. He'd done this before, he'd handled _so much worse_ than this, this dream, these false images, he could get through this. He fought to bring his chest up and down, to stop the wracking of his chest.

Harry fought against the thoughts that filled his mind; he fought against the pictures, the remnants of the dream. They weren't real. They weren't. Instead, he did what he would always do; he just focused on the rhythm of his breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Slowly, but surely, his heart slowed and his chest calmed. It was not calm, it never was after such a thing, but slowly his heart came to a controllable rate. With every deep, long breath he quashed the fiery anxiety that filled him. Each gout of air, chilling him and calming him.

Afterward, had a quick, cold shower - more to remove the lingering feeling that he was covered in some strange, _hidden_ grime than anything else. The water washed away the sweat that clung to his skin, but it didn't wash away much else. He quickly returned to his bed, charming away the sweat that had sodden his sheets, and returned to the warmth of his bed. He'd found water calmed him; as the cool droplets fell on him, for a brief moment he felt as though as he was moved away from the situation he was in. It helped at the Dursley's, for when he was there he wanted nothing else but to _not_ be there.

He did not return to his dorm; he knew sleep would evade him on that night and he was rather grateful for that fact. Better, thought Harry, to be tired than to relive what he had seen before. It was not his home, it was not a place in which he felt comfortable, and as he thought to himself, all he wished for in that moment was the feeling of comfort. He felt frazzled; he was overly-aware of himself, as though every fibre of his skin was hyper-sensitive. He needed comfort.

Usually, when these sorts of things happened, he would retreat into magic; into the very part of this world that offered hope, and gave him some semblance of belonging. But with the Northern Magics being so elusive, he knew that he would find no relief there.

Instead, he tip-toed into the common room with his bag in hand, the utmost care taken to making himself as quiet as possible, though it was more self-serving than anything else - he thought he'd probably jump through the ceiling should anything make a sound. The room would be deserted at that time of night, he reasoned, and if he couldn't comfort himself in the usual way, than he'd at least busy his mind with the monotony of potions assignments, the weight of academic pushing down upon the memories of what his mind had conjured.

* * *

By the time that the warm light of dawn fluttered through the curtains of the Gryffindor common room, Harry had already left; as it was a Hogsmeade weekend, he knew that the communal area would be filled to brimming before the autumn sun had even risen.

As he heard the beginnings of people waking up, he had left to go to the Great Hall to get his breakfast before it would fill with the lower years; most of the students going to Hogsmeade would find their morning food in the village rather than in the castle. When he arrived, there were few others there, and certainly no-one that would initiate conversation. The rooms denizens, in fact, were far more occupied with drinking enough tea and coffee to rouse themselves from their own exhaustion than any socialising.

All except Albus Dumbledore, who sat atop the teacher's table with all the energy of a man a hundred years younger than he, his whole body seemingly holding a strange, youthful energy to it. Harry recalled that the first time they met, all he could think of was the Maiar from the Lord of The Rings; his being had an almost-immortally wise quality to it, yet still remained spritely despite holding the weight of so many years.

A pleasant smile filled the Headmaster's face which quashed no small part of Harry's anxiety. Though the Professor had acted as though Harry hadn't broken their esteem, the look in Dumbledore's eyes, a look seldom seen elsewhere other than directed at Harry, gave him comfort.

"Good morning Mr Potter," said Professor Dumbledore. "I trust you're here for me to waive your need of a permission slip?"

It was a rather simple solution to the problem that Harry faced with regards to Hogsmeade visits, for the Headmaster to simply not require his at all. The Headmaster often did it for students of less understanding families such as his; in fact, before Filch was appointed to oversee permission slips by one of the more overbearing members of the Board of Governors, the Headmaster himself had been responsible for their checking and, as he told Harry, taken a deeply lax approach to it.

"If you would, Professor," replied Harry, handing over the parchment.

"Of course, my boy, though you have me surprised," said Dumbledore, a smile on his face. "It's not often you visit quite so frequently. In fact, I'm fairly sure you've _never_ done so."

Harry smiled at the implication, happy to have done something that didn't aggrieve the Professor. "There's a first time for everything, Professor."

"Indeed there is, Harry, and I do hope this isn't the last time for you," said Dumbledore, who'd finished writing upon Harry's form and have pulled out his wand, silently performing a spell of his own devising; it was a spell that created a seal, entirely unique to the wizard, to ensure that certain letters were the definite article, a valuable commodity for someone who's word carried quite so far as his. He'd taught Harry how to cast it last year, as a Christmas present. "I'm jealous of your freedom, in truth, though you've no idea how much your efforts mean to me. I thank you for trying; I know it isn't easy."

Harry reddened slightly at his words, dimly thinking that should the Headmaster know that it was not only his words that caused him to do it, he doubted he would be quite so touched. "Thank you, Sir."

Harry left the hall, turning on his heel, glad to be leaving the Headmaster happier. He walked out of the Hall, turning into the corridor, yet as he did so he ran into Neville Longbottom, sending Harry's signed parchment noiselessly to the ground, floating like an autumn leaf.

"Sorry," they both chorused, though thankfully neither were carrying anything damageable. Neville leaned down to pick up the parchment before giving it back to Harry, nodding to him and then walked into the Hall.

It took Harry until he reached the floor of the Gryffindor tower to realise that Neville had not just passed along the parchment, but also slipped in another item along with it. Harry slipped into an alcove that housed only a rusted iron solider to read it.

 _Fireplace_

 _Midnight_

 _The Dogfather wants to talk_

 _Burn this ASAP_

* * *

By the time that Harry was due to meet Hermione, the tiredness of a night without sleep had began to seep in, his usually-bright, green eyes dulled with exhaustion. Neville's message weighed heavy on him; he understood how necessary the lengths that were taken to ensure secrecy, and was almost excited at the prospect.

Harry had longed to speak to Sirius, to reach out to him. He'd known his parents, he'd been with them when they met and he'd been his father's best friend. But the prospect of actually reaching out seemed so _distant_. And, Sirius' owl was so _easy_ to spot; what if he were to message him, and it was intercepted? Harry would be responsible for his re-incarceration, and he couldn't bare that. No, Harry thought it better if he were to simply wait until his innocence was proved; it was simply safer that way.

But if Sirius thought it was safe to speak, then this was perfect. The idea of talking to him filled him with a nervous excitement; in fact, the only thing that could've even possibly way-laid his excitement was the prospect of his, for want of a better phrase, _date_ with Hermione.

A strange, dread-filled anxiety filled him as he dressed for the occasion, the very act securing the idea in his mind that it was going to happen. He couldn't shake the thought that this was a terrible idea.

They had agreed to meet outside the library; it was not in their direction of travel, but Harry knew that it would be near-deserted on a Saturday morning which made it the optimal location to meet. Harry arrived very early, knowing that Hermione would want to do the same, as he wanted some time to allow what was going on to settle in his mind. What he discovered, as he thought on it, was that he had no idea of what to expect, and letting his thoughts stew only seemed to make things worse.

It had occurred to him, as he stood with outside the Library, that this was the first time since he had arrived at Hogwarts that he had ever done something that was so entirely someone else's idea. The lack of control over what was happening that he felt served only to worry him; dimly, Harry thought this was what Neville probably felt like all the time - a mere vessel on the sea of fate, pushed around by forces beyond his control. Harry hated it.

And so it was with growing apprehension that Harry stood as, twenty minutes before they had decided to meet, that Hermione arrived. His nervousness, at that moment, seemed to manifest entirely in his hands as he was struck with a sudden awareness of them, as he had entirely no idea what to do with them.

However, as he looked up from the ground, where his eyes had been rooted, he saw Hermione and it seemed his entire body was paralyzed. She looked _different_. Her hair was not quite so chaotic, and her complexion was altered in a manner that was more reminiscent of Lavender Brown and Susan Bones; it occurred to Harry, a moment slower than it should have, that she was wearing make-up.

It seemed strange to Harry, that Hermione of all people had done such a thing. Firstly, it was not as though Harry had some expectation of her, that she needed to put so much effort into how she looked for their time together; he'd seen her yesterday, and the day before that. Secondly, He remembered that she'd mentioned at one point that the expectation for women to care so much and for men to care so little about their appearance was a symptom of a sexist society, so for her to go against what she said so immediately was odd. Thirdly, she'd also said that wearing make-up was something that should be avoided because it was an industry that tested on animals, and that contributing to their profits was essentially agreeing with the practice.

"Oh, you're early," said Hermione, by way of greeting, shock colouring her tone. "I'd been hoping to return a couple of books before we left; would you mind waiting so I could do that, before we go?"

Harry nodded, still somewhat confounded by her abrupt change in appearance. He watched her leave, the bag that was over her shoulder noticeably weighing her down as she walked. Harry noticed that she was dressed differently, too; he'd never seen her not wearing robes or her school uniform. Instead, she wore a pair of jeans, and a sweater that looked to be expensive.

It was just so odd, thought Harry, that she would go through such an effort for a day with him. Then it dawned on him.

 _She liked him_.

The realisation scared him. Terrified him, even, because it made everything that was happening, and what he was doing, so _so_ terrible. Before, he was going with a friend for Tonks. Now he was _on a date_ with a girl that liked him. And he didn't like her back. Or, _she_ wasn't the one he'd most want to be going with.

Because he couldn't deny that Hermione was pretty, as it was _undeniable_. And, though she was rather loquacious, it was clear above all things that she cared, and that was only a good thing. It was just that the idea of spending such an occasion, alone, with a person other than Tonks filled him with anxiety.

"Are you ready to go?" asked Hermione, whose return had been lost on Harry. "Are you alright, Harry? You seen off."

"Y-yeah, I-I'm fine, let's go," said Harry.

They set off, though even walking together was different. Before, Hermione walked briskly and Harry raced to keep up, but now she walked half a step slower, her path close to Harry's. She almost leaned on him as she walked, and it felt like to Harry as though he were being crowded.

"I'm excited about today, Harry," said Hermione, her brown eyes looking to Harry, making him feel tense. "I thought we could go for a walk, then go to that cafe everyone goes on about, if you'd like?"

"S-sure," replied Harry. "So, what'd you been reading?"

"Just some books that Professor Flitwick recommended I should read," said Hermione, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she did. "You know Harry, I don't know much about you, and it feels like I'm doing all the talking when we're together. Why don't you tell me about yourself; do you have any hobbies? Besides being better than me at Transfiguration, of course."

Harry laughed nervously. "Not really, I just like reading I suppose," said Harry.

Hermione laughed. "We have that in common, I see," she replied. "So nothing else? I'm practically _married_ to the library, and I'm still in the tennis club."

"Hogwarts has a tennis club?"

"Well, yes - haven't you seen the court, behind the greenhouses?" asked Hermione, bemused.

"I haven't, no," said Harry, shaking his head.

"What - did you think that the only sport played here was Quidditch?" asked Hermione, and Harry couldn't say anything because that was _exactly_ what he thought. "You should join in - you might like it."

Harry remembered only one thing about tennis; Vernon screaming at the TV whenever Boris Becker played and usually won at Wimbledon.

"I'd prefer not to," said Harry. "How long have you been playing?"

"I've played as soon as I could walk. Before I came to Hogwarts, my parents thought of putting me forward for professional coaching," replied Hermione, a hint of wistfulness colouring her tone.

"Do you wish you had?"

"Oh no," she replied immediately. "I was never that good. I'd like to think I'm a little better at being a wizard."

They reached Argus Filch quickly, the journey feeling as though it came in no time at all. Their journey was fairly un-congested either, both preferring to be awake early, rather than endure the crowds. Filch saw the pair arrive, a sneer on his face, though it was directed at Harry more than Hermione.

" _Potter_ ," began the Caretaker, his hand reaching out expectantly. "Let's see your permission slip."

Harry offered it wordlessly. The caretaker, with a sneer on his face as clear as day, looked through its content with a clear distaste. "Should know someone like _you_ would have special dis-compensation, Potter," said Filch. "Go on then," and then much more quietly, as though he didn't expect Harry to hear. " _Spoiled brat_."

Harry pretended not to hear it, as he often pretended not to hear what Filch said, and moved to get a carriage. Hermione, however, was not quite as content to let it go. "What was that all about, Harry? What did you do?" she asked, with accusation in her voice.

"I've no idea," responded Harry quietly, _honestly_. He'd had it out for Harry for as long as he'd been going to Hogwarts; he'd thought it was simply something that happened to everyone. "How come he didn't ask to see your permission slip?"

"Once you've shown him it once, he doesn't ask again. Or for everyone other than you, he doesn't," she said, as she stopped before an empty carriage. "Shall we get on this one? - Are you _sure_ you don't know why?"

Harry nodded at the first question, stepping up and into the carriage. "I've honestly no idea."

Hermione joined him into the carriage, taking the seat on the side he currently sat on, her knee then touching his as they sat. "Perhaps he saw you do magic and was jealous?" she asked, earnest in her tone. "When I first _consciously_ saw you do magic, I was jealous and I can do magic _too_."

Harry laughed nervously. "You were jealous?"

"Of course I was," said Hermione, laughing a little as she did so. "It's not every day you see someone _so_ much better than you are."

"I-I wouldn't go that far," said Harry, reddening as he did so. "I just study a little more, is all."

Hermione blustered at the prospect. "You? Study more than me?" she accused, entirely unbelieving. "You know all of the times we study together? I assume they're the only times you've studied this week?" Harry nodded. "Not me. Every time you go off to _whatever_ it is you do, I study. When I say I'm going away, I'm going to meet others, to _study_. If it were a matter of that, I'd be miles ahead of you; it's not. You're just better than me."

Harry could see how annoyed she was at having to admit that, and he didn't want to admit to her that while she was busy doing things with other friends, and playing sports and meeting with the Professors, he was also studying, but in a more practical capacity. "If you keep working like that, you'll end out being better than me."

"I don't think so, Harry. It's your calling, and contrary to what it seems like, I know I can't be the best at everything," said Hermione, smiling slightly as she said so. "Doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying however." She laughed, and so did Harry.

With a jolt, the carriage set off, and dimly Harry thought that if this was what a date with Hermione was going to be like, it wasn't so bad. He didn't know why, but it was far more enjoyable than any of the times they studied together; the knot of anxiety that formed in his stomach whenever they studied together was not there then, instead he felt strangely calm.

"You know Harry, I want to be the youngest Minister for Magic in history," said Hermione, without a hint of humour. "I don't need to be the best Transfiguration Master, or the best Potions Master, I know that isn't my calling. I work hard because they interest me, and because I know I owe myself that much, to be as good as I can at what I do."

Harry thought then, with all the conviction that he possessed, that she _would_ achieve that. From what he'd seen, and read, the bureaucracy in Magical Britain were lazy. With Hermione, they wouldn't know what hit them.

"What is it you want to do, Harry?" asked Hermione.

Harry sat silently, for a moment, wondering. He'd never been asked that before. "I've no idea," answered Harry, honestly. "Something with Transfiguration, I suppose."

An odd look took over Hermione's face; though it was not distaste, it was approaching it. " _I've_ known what I wanted for as long as I've known what a Minister for Magic was," said Hermione, with finality, and Harry had no response to it.

The pair rode in silence for the rest of the journey to Hogsmeade, though it wasn't oppressive, nor did it concern Harry. What _did_ concern Harry, was the way in which Hermione seemed to press the side of her body into his, her hand occasionally brushing his. It was not as though he didn't want it to happen, though in truth he had no idea how to feel about it, so sat there, passively, as she did so.

It was the middle of autumn, and the grounds of Hogwarts were not at the most abundant, nor where they as picturesque as they would be in the winter months, but they still filled Harry with awe whenever he crossed through them. And, all too soon, they reached the village.

Harry was the first to get out of the carriage, moving as though he were a spooked animal from Hermione's side. She followed, a bright smile on her face as she looked at him. "Shall we have a walk through the woods? I've always wanted to see them." She asked, to which Harry nodded.

They set off walking through the woods that surrounded Hogsmeade; as it was autumn, most of the trees had began shedding, though it did not detract from their grandeur. They reached a park bench, in the middle of the wood; it looked a little worse for wear, with vines growing around the back of it, but that only added to its appearance. They sat on it

"You know, Harry," began Hermione, nearly leaning onto Harry's side as they sat down. "Trees of this size will have been here for a few hundred years, perhaps even longer. And as we're walking here, over their roots, their roots will hold an imprint of us for as long as they continue to stand. Just think; an imprint of us, _together_ , will be here forever."

And in that moment Harry knew he couldn't go on, not any longer. It just wouldn't be right.

Harry turned to face Hermione, looking down at her, as she looked up at him, her large, brown eyes peering up at him expectantly. He wondered for a moment, how exactly to say to her that he thought that they were just friends.

It appeared, however, that he'd taken too long. He'd spent too long wondering what to say, as Hermione had already made that decision for him.

Hermione leaned in, and kissed him, her lips soft against his. Harry could taste the lipgloss on hers, and he had no doubt that she could taste the coffee on his. He was sat, still, in shock as she did so. He knew that he should kiss her back, but he just _couldn't_. It didn't feel right.

He had no idea what to do, and after a moment of paralysis, he moved away.

"Hermione, I-I'm sorry, but I-I don't feel that way," said Harry, his heart pounding in his chest.

"B-But you invited me here?" questioned Hermione, indignantly. " _Everyone knows_ that you don't invite people to Hogsmeade unless you like them!"

Harry felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. "I-I a-asked you as a friend," he said, quietly.

"But you defended me against Draco! And you spent all that time with me in the library! And you helped me with Transfiguration!" said Hermione. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you're my friend," replied Harry, quietly, almost whispering. "That's what friends do."

"Well how was I supposed to know that?" Asked Hermione, as tears fell from her eyes. She brought her hands to her face covering her from Harry's sight. "You were just _so_ nice, and _how_ should I _know_? _No-one_ 's ever nice to me; how could I have known?"

Harry was at a loss for words as Hermione cried in front of him; she sat doubled over, her head in her lap and she cried. Harry didn't know what to do as she sat there, crying. This felt like a baptism of fire into the world of dating, and he was not ready.

He awkwardly patted her on the back as she cried, though this turned to be a massive mistake as she sat up as though she'd been hit. She stood moving from the bench as quickly as she could. "J-just leave me alone," said Hermione, tearfully. "I-I'm sorry, but please, just leave me be."

With that, she ran from the wood, leaving Harry alone, shocked. And, for the first time, it felt as though all of the worries he had ever felt were entirely justified, as that day could not have gone any worse than it just had.

However, as with all things, it _could_ be worse. And, as it turned out, it was worse.

"Y'know Harry, when I said I could make it so that girls were crying over you, that wasn't what I had in mind," said Tonks from behind him, filling him with dread.

"I-I thought you were down in London," said Harry. He heard the rustling of trees from behind him, and Tonks sat on the bench beside him, though he didn't dare meet her eye.

"I came up to see you have your first ever date, and to see my genius plan be enacted," said Tonks.

"Yeah, well, you weren't in luck," replied Harry, though he was talking to himself more than to Tonks.

Tonks chuckled a little. "No, I guess not," she said, moving closer to put her hand on his arm in comfort. "Look Harry, you picked the wrong witch to do this with. Granger's too serious; you know she sends messages to the auror office about muggle-born arrest bias? And to the Minister's office about her opinion on different laws? She's not the type of girl you have a bit of fun with, Harry."

"I'm not so sure you're the right person to be taking advice from, after today."

"I probably deserved that," said Tonks, with a laugh. "But that, what I _saw,_ was _all_ on you. You were giving all the wrong signals. You've gotta keep it light and fun; the way she was talking, it sounds as though you were acting like you wanted to get married or something."

"I think I'm just not cut out for this, Tonks," said Harry gesturing around himself, his voice with a strange softness to it that made Tonks feel like her heart had shattered. "T-this isn't for me."

They sat in silence for a while after that. Tonks kept her hand on his arm, a silent but continual show of support. Occasionally, she would rub her thumb across his arm, almost rhythmically, and though he was not in the best mood, it soothed him greatly.

It was Tonks that broke the silence, a strangely upbeat and conspiratorial tone to her voice given the circumstances "You wanna know what my first name is?" She asked.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, I got to see what will probably go down as one of the more embarrassing moments in your life, and it's only fair that you know something equally as embarrassing about me."

"Tonks, nothing could ever be quite as embarrassing as this," said Harry, with a hint of ridicule in his voice, or as close to that as Harry could ever get.

Tonks reached out, grasping his chin and forcing his green eyes to meet hers; today, they were purple. And, as always, Harry was arrested by them. "Harry, _trust me_. It's _worse_."

And what could Harry say to her, after that?

"W-what's your name?"

Tonks cleared her throat, pausing for a moment for the appropriate amount of drama.

"Nymphadora."

It took Harry a moment - just one moment - before he gave up and broke down laughing.

He laughed and laughed and laughed. He laughed at the ridiculousness of such a name, and then he laughed at just how annoyed she looked, and then he laughed at how ridiculous this situation was that just a few minutes before. He laughed that he was nearly ready to give up, and all it took was Tonks to change his day.

It took a _long_ time, but eventually Harry got himself under control enough to ask. "Why on earth would your parents name you that?"

"You're asking me?!" exclaimed Tonks, and it was just so hilarious to Harry that someone as cool as Tonks was _still_ angry at it. "You know what my Dad's name is? Ted. Oh, and my mum's side of the family, the Blacks, don't have a history of that name. It's not a _family_ name. They just up and decided that their daughter was gonna have the worst name _ever_. Pricks."

Harry just couldn't stop laughing.

"Do you know how much shit I get given with a name like that?" continued Tonks, no wind leaving her sails, both arms gesturing wildly. "I was called Nymphadora the Nymphomaniac for the entirety of my last three school years by nearly _everyone_. I _still_ get called it by other aurors. It's bullshit."

"Why don't you get your name changed, then, if it's so bad?"

"Cos everyone's still gonna _call_ me it, aren't they? It's not as if I can everyone will suddenly forget my name's _fucking_ Nymphadora. Sorta sticks in the memory, doesn't it?" said Tonks, and Harry couldn't argue. He'd _certainly_ never forget it.

Harry laughed, for what seemed like the thousandth time. "You know what? I was wrong," he said. "Your name's much worse than my day. I can slowly forget about today. You'll always be called Nympha-"

"Don't you _dare_ say it!" Nymphadora interrupted, as she would now always be known as in Harry's mind. "And you're right. My thing _is_ worse. You owe me something personal now, as compensation."

Harry agreed, if only because he didn't want to stop talking. He struggled to think of anything he could tell her, that wasn't _too_ embarrassing for himself. Then, he saw the top she was wearing. It was a New Order t-shirt; it had the album art from their first album, Movement.

"You know that t-shirt you're wearing?"

"You mean my _New Order_ T-shirt?"

"Yeah, my personal story is about that," said Harry.

"Really? Did you meet them or something?" Tonks asked, excitedly. "Oh my god! Were you raised by New Order? Are you the lead singer's secret love-child or something?"

"Not quite, no," replied Harry, chuckling more out of nervousness than humour. "You know about my parents, right?"

"Yeah, I recognised your surname. The story's quite well known," Tonks said, frowning in displeasure. She reached over and patted his arm in sympathy. "Harry, if it's too personal, you don't have to tell me."

"No, no, not at all. It's actually quite happy, if you think about it," said Harry, smiling despite the sadness he felt talking about his parents. "Anyway, I don't know much about them, other than what other people have told me, which isn't much. But, when Dumbledore took me away to my muggle relatives, he managed to pile together all of their possessions that weren't damaged when You-Know-Who's followers burned our house down, and kept them. He gave me them the first Christmas I was at Hogwarts.

"As it turned out, both my parents loved muggle music, and the one album that survived the attack was Movement by New Order; apparently they loved them so much they got an advanced copy for it and everything. So, whenever I listen to it, I think about how my parents loved it too, and I feel so much closer to them."

Harry finished, strangely tired after the admission. However, he looked over to Tonks, and he saw that she had tears in her eyes.

She looked at him tearfully.

"Oh, _Harry_ ," she said, launching herself at him, her arms wrapping themselves around him as she hugged him. She had her head on his chest, so that his chin laid on top; instinctively, he brought his arms around her, holding her close to him.

They sat their, for a while, Harry content to simply hold her and Tonks to be held by him. Both felt entirely comfortable in the arms of one another, and neither wished to go anywhere other than exactly where they were right then.

Strangely, it was Harry that broke the silence.

"You know, making two girls cry in one day must be a record of some kind," he said, and he felt Tonks laugh against his chest. Harry looked down at the mess of hair that lay beneath him; the usually bright array of colours was instead replaced with a dark blonde colour. It was the most natural colour he'd ever seen her hair have, and it gave him a strange feeling of comfort.

"I wouldn't go that far, Casanova," said Tonks against his chest. Then, she punched him the arm, to which he yelped in displeasure. "And you're not allowed to joke after telling me your sad, sad story. I'm too sad."

"I think it's a happy story."

"Yeah, well, you're wrong," said Tonks. "It's really sad, and just thinking about it makes me sad, okay?"

Harry smiled to himself, and dared to pull Tonks closer, holding her tightly within his arms; for her part, Tonks, squeezed back. It should've felt uncomfortable, to be held so closely, but with Tonks it felt right.

Harry looked up, at the wood they were in. It was a deep part of the woodland, and it looked as though it'd barely been seen or walked through in quite some time. The ground was fully covered in the darkened, fallen leaves of the trees around them; to Harry, it felt like a world that was entirely their own. It was not perfect, with the bright, beautiful leaves of summer already gone, but it was theirs.

And to Harry, it was odd. Odd that a place that before only held embarrassment, then held only joy. He desperately tried to capture all that he could see; he wanted to remember what this looked like, so that he could commit it to canvas.

Tonks, however, felt differently about the place, and after a while, suddenly sprang up.

"Well, I won't have your first _proper_ Hogsmeade visit ruined, so we're gonna do it properly," said Tonks, a grin slowly forming on her face. "Now tell me, Harry, have you ever had Butterbeer?"

* * *

It was with a jaunty step that Harry arrived back at Hogwarts Castle, almost whistling as he walked. Tonks had taken him to the Hog's Head, a very unpopular pub ran by a man with more than a passing resemblance to the Headmaster, and had bought him more than his fair share of Butterbeer; enough, in fact, to make him forget all about Hermione and what had happened with his dream that morning.

By the time Tonks had said that she needed to get back to London as she was working the night shift, Harry was already feeling positively delightful; his mind buzzing with joy, and the affects of the drink, as he made his way back to the castle.

However, he hadn't forgotten about the rendezvous with Sirius. He knew he needed to have a clear and rational mind for that night. So, before he had gotten to his dorm, he had visited the kitchens to get few jugs of water to clear his mind, as well as looking over some of the books on the Northern Magics so as to get his mind to calm down from his afternoon with Tonks.

He laid down on his bed for a while before he went downstairs; he knew that it was late, but he wanted to be sure that the common room was clear. Briefly, he wondered why it was that Sirius requested to see him; from the tone of the message, it seemed that it was important.

Harry waited until his watch told him that it was five minutes until midnight before he made his way to the common room. Though he knew the rest of his dorm-mates slept like the dead, he still took care to be quiet, tip-toeing his way through the room as he did so.

He arrived at the common room and the first sight he saw was Neville, sat on one of the large chairs that surrounded the fire-place. He wasn't wearing his invisibility cloak, though Harry suspected it was only for his benefit.

Neville nodded at him. "Hey, Harry," he began, beckoning Harry to join him at the fireplace. "Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger, but you know how important a secret Sirius is."

"Of course," replied Harry, his tongue still loosened by the Butterbeer. "Thanks for sending along the message today."

"Anything for Sirius," said Neville, who was then interrupted by a gout of flame from the fireplace that signaled Sirius' presence.

"Hello, boys," introduced Sirius, a smile evident even through the fire. "I know it's past both your bedtimes, but I'm glad you made an exception for me."

"I'm surprised you spared your beauty sleep for us," taunted Neville, and Sirius laughed.

"As if I need it - have you seen me?" preened Sirius, and Harry dimly realised that no, he hadn't.

"So, Sirius, why do you call to meet me?" asked Harry.

Sirius seemed put out that the joking had stopped, especially at Harry's behest. "Well, Harry, it is to do with what you told Dumbledore about the person trying to confound the Goblet."

"You think someone is trying to put Neville's name in there?" said Harry, and earning looks of shock from the pair of them. "What? I've been going to school with you for four years now Neville. Eventually you start to just expect these things."

"Well, yes, Harry, you're exactly right," said Sirius, annoyed that he missed out on a grand reveal, but smiling nonetheless. "You _are_ your mother's son."

Harry smiled at that, his cheeks reddening.

Sirius continued. "Have you seen anything more? Do you have any idea on who it might be?"

Harry recalled that he'd found it difficult to slip away from Hermione's all-seeing eye, and hadn't managed to get another look at the Goblet as he wished to.

"No, nothing," he said. "Surely if Dumbledore knows about it though, he can put a stop to it."

Sirius frowned. "That's the thing, Harry. Any mention of tampering with the Goblet will simply sound like an accusation of cheating to the other schools. His hands are tied, and he wouldn't be able to apply anti-confounding charms without it being obvious to anyone that bothered to look, and all that would serve to do is incriminate him."

"So what are you saying, Sirius?"

"I need you to keep an eye on the Goblet, Harry," said Sirius. "Neville has been checking on it in the mean time, but his proximity to it will only make him look as though he was the one who put his name in should it actually happen. We need to keep Neville safe."

Beside him, Harry could see Longbottom bristling at the very notion that he needed to be protected, but Harry found himself nodding in agreement. In truth, as long as Sirius knew things about Harry's parents, he'd do near-enough anything for him.

"Of course, Sirius."

"Thank you, Harry," said the fugitive. "The Goblet is a powerful artifact, but that doesn't mean that it is impossible to be tampered with. Plus, the names are to be drawn out on Halloween, so your watch will only be for a week or so. Are you sure you're willing to do this?"

"Absolutely." replied Harry, with a tone of finality, the fading buzz of the butterbeer suppressing the discomfort he felt at the word _Halloween_. And, even though he disliked the coddling, Neville still exhaled a breath that he'd been holding as Harry agreed.

"Thank you; I know you might not fully trust me yet, but I'm glad that despite your differences with your father, you're still as selfless as he is. _Was._ " said Sirius, earnestly.

Harry smiled. "It's the right thing to do."

"Nonetheless, you have our gratitude." said Neville, a slight smile on his face.

"If there's anything we can do for you, let us know." said Sirius.

"Well, there is one thing," replied Harry, settling into the seat. "If you could, would you tell me about my parents?"

Sirius _beamed_ at him. "Of course, Harry."

"I'll leave you two; it's not my place," said Neville, nodding to Harry. "Thank you for this, Harry."

Harry nodded back, watching Neville leave up the fourth-year boys stairs.

"So, what is it you'd like to hear?" Asked Sirius, a smile on his face.

Harry deliberated on that for a moment, before deciding. "Could you tell me something no-one else other than you would tell me?"

"Sure," said Sirius, laughing a little. "But be prepared to think of your parents a little differently after this."

That was _exactly_ what Harry wanted.

"So," continued Sirius. "Your mother was a _real_ teacher's pet. We're talking a proper does-all-the-homework-early, never does anything wrong, always answers questions in lessons, goodie-two-shoes. Your father - not so much. I'm pretty sure by the time me and him finished our time at school we'd broken every rule _twice_. James though, he was never as good as me at getting out of it; he'd always put his foot in his mouth whenever he was talking to the Professors.

"So, this was just after they'd started going out, in seventh year. They were Head Boy and Head Girl, and it'd always been fairly obvious that it was gonna be those two. So, first day they're on the job, they're expected to put out a good image, to look like they belong in their position. Except, 'cos this is James, that was never gonna happen. Turns out, he'd managed to persuade Lily into having a bit of broom closet fun before the opening feast. Except, 'cos this is James, who's an idiot and forgot to put on his watch, they lost track of time and end up missing the feast entirely.

"So, by this point, Dumbledore's sent the professors on a search party for them. And guess who finds them?"

"Who?" asked Harry, hanging on the edge of his seat, in rapt attention.

"McGonagall," said Sirius, and Harry laughed in sympathy with his father. "See, if this was me, I'd manage to talk my way out of it, at least a little bit. Except, 'cos this is _James_ , he puts his foot in his mouth. So, when McGonagall finds them, as livid as can be, you know what he says - bearing in mind he's still got both his hands up Lily's shirt, mind you?"

"What did he say?"

"'Sorry, Professor, it's just that the House Elves were out of melons and I said I'd help search for them.'"

Harry couldn't take it; he broke down, laughing.

He laughed and laughed and laughed.

This, _this_ , was who his parents were. Not war heroes, or martyrs, or prodigies. But _people_.

Sirius, who himself had broken down into hysterics remembering the story, finished. "He got a _year's_ detention for that. McGonagall said the only reason he didn't get any more was because he'd be graduating," said Sirius between barks of laughter. "The lower years thought he _ran_ the detentions."

Harry laughed and laughed and laughed, simply content in being with this Godfather, as they both remembered the man they both missed the most.

"I tell you what Harry," said Sirius, after his laughter had finally died down. "I promise I will do anything I can to talk to you at least once a week. There are so, _so_ many stories that you just _need_ to hear."

Harry smiled at the thought, touched that this man, who was essentially a stranger to Harry would offer so much.

"Thank you, Sirius."

"Always, Prongs."

And with that, the fire extinguished, letting the room fall into darkness once more. Yet, as Harry walked to his bed, he felt lighter than ever.

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it. Please review and let me know what you thought of it.**

 **Until next time.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi all.**

 **It seems I've been struck with inspiration lately, so this the second chapter of the week. I hope you all enjoy it.**

 **Please review if there's anything you want to see, or if there's something you want for me to be aware of. I really appreciate them, and the support you've shown. Thank you.**

 **So, here it is.**

* * *

In an attempt to avoid Hermione after the calamity that was the last Hogsmeade weekend and, more importantly to ignore the fact that Halloween was coming up, Harry had devoted even more time into his study of the Northern Magics, and had discovered a great many things, though it seemed there was only one issue that he found impossible to overcome.

The wand itself.

Harry had sent away for some more books on the topic of the Northern Magics from a well-respected library in Austria that housed many of the foremost historical texts in various fields, though specifically transfiguration, and had spent a great deal of time _painstakingly_ transcribing the text from its original language into English. It seemed that the Hogwarts Library had only a rudimentary coverage of the subject, a statement proved by the fact that he'd spent most of his free time in school in there, and had only then came across the topic from a book in a small bookstore in Diagon Alley. However, upon review of other material, it had become even more gravely apparent that modern foci were, in a word, too _sophisticated_ for any proper application of the art.

Wands were, by their efficiency, more powerful and more useful than anything that predated the foci, hence their widespread use and the almost total disappearance of staves and charms within recent history. Several hundred years had passed since the last time that Hogwarts taught any subject with the use of any other foci, and even resolute areas such as Scandinavia had long since given over to the wand. Much like the flying carpet giving way to the broom, it seemed that even wizards were not immune to technological advancement.

However, it was this _advancement_ that posed Harry's main problem. The strength of the wand was simply its efficiency. Before, a phenomena known as magical leakage was known to occur; with other foci, while most of the magic that the spell channeled was used _within_ the spell, a good deal of the energy was spent elsewhere in sending magic to the surrounding area. For this very reason, many areas of battle between wizards and witches from _millennia_ ago still to this day had a clear and aggressive magical presence, which would often cause interference with magic being used afterward due to the violent nature of their spells. You would have to have a death wish to cast a spell within a mile of Stonehenge, for example.

Unfortunately for Harry the Northern Magics, it seemed, existed within their own universe with regards to these sorts of things. When the Northern Magics were cast, the magical leakage did not simply disperse into the environment. No, as the Magics were themselves _nature_ , the excess energy would, according to the literature, _interact_ with the spell and provide a dampening force for the spells so that they were able to be controlled, acting much like insulation for the volatile magical energy. _That_ was what made the Northern Magics so special; that they were so incredibly _natural_ , that they were a method of casting magic without this excess expenditure. They were both natural, as magic should be, while as also being _useful_ , as we wish it to be.

They were the _very_ definition of _controlled chaos_.

However, this presented a great issue for Harry. How on _earth_ was he going to fully utilise them without a staff?

He'd given up on any attempts to fully control them with his wand, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he hurt himself or blew half the school in his efforts. For a brief time, he'd considered using different hand motions in his efforts; he'd thought that maybe, if he were to use the structure of charms, the disconnect would allow their use. What _actually_ happened was he'd learned _exactly_ it feels like to be thrown twenty feet in the air by the force of magic alone.

And, it was for this reason that he found himself standing outside Professor McGonagall's office. Harry had recalled her offer of help, and in a rush of confidence born out of the frustration that he felt over his failings, had decided to go to see her.

Harry rapped on the door of her office, hoping that the Transfiguration Master would be there. He had arrived before staff members began their patrols of the castle in the hope that he would see her. Thankfully, it was not long before he could hear the sound of footsteps beyond the door, which swung open to reveal the Professor wearing her usual robes, though her hair was out of her usual bun and was instead over her left shoulder in a braid.

"P-Potter?" said the Professor, with shock in her voice. Harry thought that, for a moment, she seemed to be looking _through_ him. "This is quite the surprise. Do come in."

The Professor opened the door wider to beckon Harry into the room; he walked into the office wordlessly, as he took stock of the Transfiguration Professor's office. The first thing he noticed was the _warmth_ of the room; both in colour, and in temperature as a large fire centered the room. A thick, red rug covered the majority of the floor, and in front of the fire there stood two high-backed chairs. Harry heard Professor McGonagall close the door behind them, and walked past him and into one of the chairs, urging Harry to do the same, which he did.

"So, Mr Potter, what is the cause of your visit?" asked McGonagall.

"You erm, you said if I, er, needed any help with something I was studying I could come to you?"

The Professor nodded. "So I did. In truth, I thought you would've gone to the Headmaster, rather than to me for help. While I'm fairly adept at the art, it's Professor Dumbledore that is the savant at Transfiguration. But, I'm glad you accepted my offer. So, what is it that you are having difficulty with?"

"Do you, erm, do you know about the Northern Magics?" asked Harry, entirely innocently. He did not anticipate Professor McGonagall's reaction, which was to jump in her seat as though she'd been shocked.

However, almost instantly, she retained her composure. "Y-yes, I do," she said, nodding to Harry. "I must say this is the first time I've _ever_ been asked about it, however. It's not your average wizard's fare, you realise. So, what exactly are you having trouble with?"

"I have been struggling to control the spells, Professor," said Harry. "The few spells I could find just don't seem to work with a wand."

"Well, that's to be expected. Many wizards go their whole lives trying to rein the magic in, hoping that they will be able to recapture the feats from the legends," replied Professor McGonagall. "Hold on - what do you mean 'with a wand'?"

"Well, the original users used staves, and I don't think the spells will ever work with a wand."

McGonagall paused for a moment, considering his words. "Perhaps you're right. I suppose unlike nearly all other spells, the change in foci would prevent their use, the spells being the way they are," she said. "You'd have to alter nearly _everything_ about the motions of wand-use to even _begin_ to get a stable result."

"I don't think the spells are ever going to work within the parameters of the Roman system of magic use," said Harry. "From what I've read, there isn't a motion involved with the spell at all, let alone a specific one."

McGonagall frowned at his words. "The whole _point_ of the system is that it's all encompassing. I highly doubt that this spell will be the exception," said the Professor. "I do recall, however, that when I was achieving my mastery that there was a fellow student of mine that was looking into the subject, but she gave up soon into it, citing very similar reasons to yours."

"Oh, I have no intention of giving up, Professor," clarified Harry. "I was just wondering if you thought there was something I was missing."

"What you're missing, Mr Potter, is a _time-turner_ that can take you back seven-hundred years," said Professor McGonagall. "However, I'm inclined to think that there's no problem that can't be solved with the proper effort. So, what is it that you already know?"

Harry half-smiled at his teacher. "Well, I currently know a handful of spells and I've gotten one of the original texts translated into English, though there's something that was confusing me," said Harry. "The text talks about higher and lesser arts. Do you have any idea what they mean by that?"

Professor McGonagall smiled. "Well, it's actually been a point of confusion within the subject for quite a while," said the Professor. "See, all of the texts that have been discovered from the period of time the Northern Magics were in more common use make reference to the subject, the dichotomy of higher and lesser arts that is. Yet, there hasn't been a _single_ discovery of one of the so called _'higher arts'_. No one knows what they are at all, and yet the original practitioners couldn't seem to stop mentioning them."

Harry frowned at her words. "How do they know a spell is which of the two?" He asked. "I had initially thought the two arts referred to the ceremonial and the battle magic."

"Well, Mr Potter, there is _no_ difference between the two. Their ceremonial magic _is_ their battle magic," said Professor McGonagall. "And it's actually quite a simple task to differentiate between the two arts. If you _see_ the spell happen, and are still alive to tell the tale, it was a lesser art. While the lesser arts are very impressive and certainly powerful, the only appropriate way to describe the effect of a higher art is an _act of God._ "

Harry eyes were wide at her words. To think of the destruction that he had caused, and to know that was only the tiniest _fraction_ of their true potential was mesmerising to say the least.

However, the Professor's words did clarify his knowledge somewhat. Her words corresponded quite accurately to the descriptions he had read, and to know that it was not a failing of his that caused the spells to be less grand than the stories, but rather because they were describing another spell entirely, was comforting.

"You mentioned that you know a number of the spells?" continued Professor McGonagall, to which Harry nodded. "I've never seen their use first hand; would you be willing to provide a demonstration?"

Harry instantly nodded. "I can, though I will say that I don't have the utmost control over the spell yet, so you may want to use a room that doesn't have anything valuable inside it. And stand well back."

"There is a disused classroom attached to my office, you can use that," said Professor McGonagall. "Though perhaps you should one of the less _volatile_ spells, if you can. The Headmaster has told me what you've done to Professor Lupin's old classroom."

The pair walked through the only other door in her office to the classroom attached to the office. From the appearance of the room, it looked as though it hadn't been used in many a year, perhaps even dating back to when Professor Dumbledore was still the Transfiguration professor.

"The spell I have the most control over is, according to the translation, the _'Tempest'_ spell," said Harry, earning a frown from the Professor.

"I do hope the result is less worrisome than the name," replied Professor McGonagall, with a tight-lipped smile. "The floor is yours, Mr Potter."

Harry nodded. He looked around the room, measuring its appearance and the locations of the desks and chairs. Then, he closed his eyes, allowing the rest of the world to fade away as he focused, deep within himself, on his task.

With a deep breath, he pictured within his mind, a whirlwind powered only by his power. He envisioned its motion, the way it carved through the air and tore a hole through the world, as though the universe corresponded to its will and its will alone, as though the Earth were simply its personal playground. _This_ is what you had to do to achieve the Northern Magics.

And, with barely a whisper, he said.

" _Oväder."_

And, from once there was nothing, there became _chaos_.

Within the centre of the room, a whirlwind of Harry's creation formed, winds howling as the miracle of nature twisted in place. Crackling energy filled the air, and Harry could taste the Ozone on his tongue as lightning threatened to flash within the room. With all of his might, Harry wrestled to control the spectacle, as he knew that with a single mistake he could level the entire corridor.

A world of nature with a will of its own formed from within a classroom before their very eyes. For in those brief moments, that classroom became a world of nature, isolated from all else. It fought to dominate its world, its _domain_. And Harry fought _back_.

Dimly, he recognised that Professor McGonagall was standing next to him, transfixed. At that moment, his wand hand was still, by his side, as it was his _other_ hand that guided the storm's path. With each precise motion of his hand, the storm was pushed and corralled into control, fighting against Harry's will every time. But Harry _knew_ that he would win.

"Okay, Harry, that's enough," said the Professor from beside him, just then relieved from her amazement. "Can you stop it?"

Harry knew that by responding all he would manage would be to lose his concentration, so he ignored her in favour of preventing a disaster. He knew that he could not simply draw his magic from the spell as the sudden energy difference would cause an _explosion_. So, he very, _very_ slowly, bit by bit, drew himself away from the spell.

Every single stream of magic seemed to _scream_ at him to stop what he was doing, and to push _more_ energy into it. To make it bigger. To make it more volatile. To make it _more_. That was it's nature, and it was Harry's duty to stop it. The nature was near-seductive with it's call to him, its pleas and its promises, but Harry fought with every inch of himself. He was _more_ than that.

So, with all of his might, he pulled each smidgen of energy away, ignoring the roaring in his mind to do _anything_ but that. Slowly, very slowly, the tempest dropped in magnitude, its winds dropping. When once they roared, they barked, and by the end they only whistled.

It took a long time, and it took the utmost care, but finally the classroom returned to its original state. Harry, however, was the one that was worse for wear. After his efforts, his entire body was straining, and he found himself kneeling on the floor, his chest heaving as he did so.

"Well, Mr Potter, that was certainly _spectacular_ ," said Professor McGonagall from above Harry. "I shan't ask you to repeat your efforts, I think you'd be in the infirmary for about a week if I did so. Do you need a hand standing up?"

Harry shook his head, and with great effort forced himself to his feet, though his balance was incredibly shaky.

"I must say, it's been many a year since I was _shocked_ by something a student performed in front of me. I'd say the last time would've been, well, come to think of it the last time would've been about seventeen years ago," said Professor McGonagall, and if Harry were not quite as preoccupied with keeping his lungs inside his body, he might've noticed the way the Transfiguration Professor's cheeks reddened. "What I saw today was quite brilliant."

And, even though he felt like he was about to keel over, the professor's words brought a smile to his face. Even smiling exhausted Harry at that moment.

"I do see your point, Harry, regarding the control of the spell," continued the Professor. "You seemed to cast it about as well as is possible, but without any wand-motions when casting, it does appear to be nigh-impossible to have any control over. You appeared to be wrestling with it quite aggressively, and yet still it appeared to have a mind of its own."

Harry nodded, his lungs too heavy to speak.

"I feel this conversation would be better suited to when both of its members are able to contribute," finished the Professor, a smile in her voice, and Harry did not have the energy to raise his head to meet her eyes to find if there was one on her face. "Perhaps, if you were to stay behind after one of my lessons, we might be able to discuss it further?"

Harry agreed, nodding with his eyes closed, simply too exhausted to force them open. Professor McGonagall gestured to the door leading to the corridor, where the Gryffindor common room was only a short walk away, but in Harry's mind, it felt like miles.

"Get some rest, Mr Potter."

And with great effort, Harry stumbled and staggered into the corridor, and on to his dorm. Unbeknownst to him, Professor McGonagall watched him leave with a smile on her face, her mind a million miles away.

* * *

To Harry, the Goblet of Fire would never cease to provide intrigue. He felt as though he could've looked at it for half of his life, and wouldn't have even began to grow tired of it. However, his position as its _de facto_ guardian had grown tiresome _quickly._

Worse still, his vigil had began to rob Harry of his free time, which impeded his ability to study, which caused more of a blow than he had originally expected. For so long, most of his free time had been used simply venturing down the various avenues of magic that peaked his interest, and he had not realised the profound impact it caused on his life. While before, he could so easily allow his mind to attach itself onto an a new and exciting concept, filling his mind with the wondrous thoughts and images that magic could conjure, that when he was reduced to something as simple as guard duty, the task wore on him.

Dimly, Harry realised that any real job would probably kill him.

However, the boredom he faced as he situated himself in a disused antechamber did not crush his resolve absolutely, as he knew that it was his Godfather that had asked him to do it.

Even to Harry, the sudden and implicit trust he felt in Sirius was strange. He knew that he shouldn't feel quite as trusting of the man that he was, that he shouldn't believe what he had said without a second thought, and yet he did all the same. Sirius had sent Harry a letter the day after they had talked through the fire, confirming that he would be free to talk next Saturday, and it made Harry's week all the better. It _even_ made the incredibly dull job of guarding an artifact that seemingly no _-_ one wanted to tamper with pass slightly smoother.

And that was the truly hateful aspect of it all. All the intrigue, all of the fascination that Harry had felt toward the cloaked man had all been for naught as there had been no return. No second sighting. His position felt altogether pointless as a result, and he wished for nothing more than to be anywhere else than he was then.

He couldn't practice his artwork, or read, in the antechamber because he didn't wish to turn a light on or light a candle as it may alert someone to his presence. He couldn't practice any magic, because the _moment_ anyone suspected foul-play, any evidence of his magical use would only incriminate him. He couldn't even ask Tonks to join him on his watch, because that would mean that he'd have to tell her about Sirius, and it wasn't his secret to tell.

So, with no other option, Harry would simply have to face the mundanity. It would only be for a few more days, he reasoned.

* * *

"When's your birthday, Harry?"

"31st of July," answered Harry. "Why?"

"Why? Are you asking why your birthday is that date? Because I feel like I'm probably the wrong person to be answering that question," replied Tonks, grin forming as she spoke. "And, to be honest, by now you _should_ know that for yourself."

"No!" exclaimed Harry, red-faced. "Why do you want to _know_?"

"Because I'm bored of doing paperwork," replied Tonks, shrugging. "You know, when I signed up, I expected to be doing actual, proper police work, but instead I'm here writing out reams of parchment. They've somehow managed to make solving crimes dull."

"What made you decide to become an auror?" asked Harry, joining her in abandoning his work, the beginnings of his charms essay moved clearly to one side.

"I saw Die Hard with my Dad when I was 13," said Tonks. "After that, being anything other than a Detective seemed a bit mundane, really."

"What's Die Hard?" asked Harry, somewhat embarrassed to be doing so.

Tonks' face exploded in shock. "Weren't you raised in the muggle world? How can you have not seen Die Hard?" she asked, aghast the the very idea. The extent of her offence was incredible. "It's the single greatest story ever told! It's the story of one man _heroically_ saving the world against terrorists using only his bravery, and his gun. It's practically the dream."

Harry smiled. "And you thought that _real_ auror work would be like that?"

"Well, maybe not _exactly_ like that, but I certainly expected to kill more German terrorists than I currently have," said Tonks, and Harry had to admire her optimism, even if it was directed in entirely the wrong direction.

"The terrorists were German? Why were they even _terrorising_ to begin with?"

"Money. Well, bearer bonds, but essentially money."

"And they decided to become terrorists to get _money_?" asked Harry, fairly earnestly. "Were they aware that there are easier methods than that? Like having a career?"

Tonks huffed. "Yes, _but,_ the terrorism was just a front so they could rob a bank, and use the hostages they took to ransom their escape. Quite clever, really."

"It sounds like the terrorists just wanted to kidnap and kill people, and the whole robbery was just a front so they could do that," said Harry, considering his words carefully.

" _Sounds_ wicked though, doesn't it?" asked Tonks, smiling widely

" _Of course_ ," replied Harry, returning a grin.

"I can't believe you haven't seen it already," said Tonks. A cloud of thought took over her face, her pen in between her red lips as she did so. "It's practically an institution."

"Well, considering I'd've been all of eight when it came out, it might've been a little bit difficult to get in," replied Harry. Then, rather sheepishly. "Plus, I've never actually been to the cinema."

"How on earth is that possible?" asked Tonks, all of a sudden very animated. "My mum can barely _pronounce_ cinema properly, and she still went to see Pretty Woman with dad a few years ago."

Harry shrugged in a way he often did when his life before Hogwarts was brought up. "It was never really something that interested me," he lied, as he remembered as clear as day the one occasion he'd begged his Aunt Petunia to see Back To The Future, and the very severe response he'd received had told him quite clearly that visits to the pictures would not be happening. "Die Hard sounds fun, though."

Tonks tilted her head, searching his eyes as he spoke, curiosity pouring from her. Harry fought the urge to squirm under her gaze; a feat doubly difficult as he found her eyes so fascinating, and so very difficult to look away from.

"So, what did you do then? At home?" asked Tonks, eventually.

"I read, mostly. And draw, obviously," said Harry, earning a smile from Tonks at the mention of his art. It was strange to him, how much she enjoyed his art, that every time he mentioned it she seemed to light up in a way he would never see her do otherwise. It baffled him as, in his opinion, his drawings weren't deserving of a person like Tonks' adulation.

" _Nerd_ ," said Tonks affectionately, grinning.

"You asked!"

"Still, _nerd_ ," repeated Tonks, still smiling. "It's very weird that you haven't been to the cinema though. _Most_ wizards have been to the cinema, and that's saying something."

Again, Harry shrugged. It wasn't as though he could tell Tonks why it was that he hadn't, now could he?

"I suppose I'll have to rectify that soon," said Harry. "It'd be really interesting to see how they frame moving pictures, actually."

"How can you take something as cool as films, and think about the single _nerdiest_ aspect of it? Honestly Harry, the cinematography, of _all_ of the things?" teased Tonks, and Harry smiled as she did.

"It's a gift, I suppose," replied Harry. Then, he chanced. "Though it's fairly nerdy of you to know the word _cinematography,_ to be fair."

"You need to respect your elders," said Tonks with a wink. "I'm the furthest thing from nerdy you can imagine. I'm cooler than you'll _ever_ be."

"Aren't the entry requirements for an auror really high? I think I read that you need 5 EEs to even be considered," mused Harry, rhetorically. "I think you'd need to be quite the _nerd_ to get those."

"Takes one to know one," said Tonks childishly, impishly. "And what did I say about respecting your elders?"

The pair laughed together, their work now entirely ignored, and Harry doubted either of them cared.

"Harry, why is it that you draw?" asked Tonks, quietly and gently.

Harry was quiet for a moment, allowing her words to roll around in his mind. "I think it's just something I've always liked to do," he said, though he fumbled over his words as though they were heavy on his tongue. He paused a moment, a struggle on his face as he attempted to find the correct words to clarify exactly what he was trying to convey, his left hand clenching as he struggled with it. "It's just - I see things…clearer, I think. When I draw things, it doesn't matter what it is, things in my mind become less foggy. Less…jumbled. When my head gets a bit stressful, when I can _see_ the thoughts, they're not as messy any more."

Tonks nodded at his words, smiling sympathetically at his words. She shuffled across the floor to lay her hand on his wrist, her thumb stroking the skin in comfort. Harry stared at the ground, focusing only the way her skin felt against his, the sensation calming him immensely.

"I think I understand, Harry. When I'm working or when I'm around strangers, I have to keep a hold of my changes and it makes me feel like I'm bottling up _lightning_. After a while, it all gets to be too much and I have to let go."

Harry smiled at her, and turned his arm so that he had a hold of her arm, and returned her gesture. Tonks met his eyes, hers a swirling blue, and smiled gratefully.

"I don't think I understand though," said Harry. "You never seemed to bottle it up with me?"

Tonks smiled. "I suppose I've just always known I could trust you."

"I trust you too." said Harry, smiling back.

And in that moment, Harry doubted he had ever been as happy as he was then.

* * *

It proved difficult to avoid Hermione entirely, as they shared every lesson together, but the fact that it was a _very_ collaborative effort made it all the simpler. It seemed that a silent accord had been struck following the Hogsmeade weekend, so that neither party would have to face the great shame and embarrassment that was brewing under the surface.

In every lesson, they returned to the seating arrangements they held prior to the ill-fated almost-friendship forming, and then suddenly and disastrously collapsing. Harry returned to sitting behind Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott in Defence, and welcomed their inane chatter, or at least he thought he did. In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall had blessedly not set any pair-work lately, and had been receptive to their change in seating in a flash of bias to her favourite student - that being Hermione, of course.

In fact, it was all gone swimmingly. Everything was perfect, or as perfect as the circumstance could be considering the situation.

That was until Professor Snape's lesson.

Because _of course_ , the slimy Potions professor had never seen a student suffer and not wanted to make things worse. He seemed to have a sixth sense that told him exactly how to cause the most pain possible for his students; it was probably a result of his bat ancestry, thought Harry.

So, as Harry walked into the Potions dungeon, it should have come as no surprise to him that the first words out of Snape's mouth would be. "Potter, you are to work with Granger in the future. Let us hope each of your individual stupidity will counter-act the others'."

The Slytherin's tittering filled the air, and Harry's dread filled his stomach. Quickly, he spared a glance to Tracey Davis, his usual partner. She nodded to him, and he nodded back; in an odd way, he knew he'd miss working with her. Probably because she was the only Slytherin not tittering.

Harry didn't dare look toward Hermione as he took his equipment to her bench, purposefully avoiding her. Even as he sat down, he ignored her, and he could feel her do the same, placing the Potions text between the two of them as a clear barrier.

"So, students, Today, we will be making the Elixir of Joy. This particular brew requires an _especially_ careful hand as it uses a… _particularly_ powerful bonding agent. I expect the correct outcome to evade _most_ of you," He finished addressing the class, then approached Harry's desk, adding, with the tension _palpable_ in the air. "You know, you two may just have the ability to perfect this brew. You seem to have a keen awareness on… _bonding._ "

Harry reddened at the insinuation, but seethed inwardly at the gall of the professor to speak as he did. Beside him, he felt Hermione bristle at his words. Harry wondered how on _Earth_ Snape could've possibly known about what had happened.

"You have the remainder of the lesson. Begin."

Immediately, Hermione set to work on preparation, her body a frenzy of limbs and Harry was content to leave her to it, his main goal in lesson to limit their friction to a minimum. Harry occupied himself with cleaning and preparing the cauldron as Snape had saw fit to give the pair equipment that had been covered in grime from what looked like the mother of all potions accidents. Harry doubted Seamus could've even _began_ to cause this much mess.

"I see you're allowing Granger to do the entirety of the work there, Potter. It seems only _natural_ for you to rely purely on the efforts of others," said Snape, an ugly smile on his face as he added. "You two do mesh _so well_ together."

Once more, Harry filled with righteous anger. By what right did Professor Snape make comments like that?

However, Hermione had a more useful approach to the potions professor's comments as she wordlessly swapped places with him, handing him the scalpel she had been using to slice the potions ingredients, taking the scrubbing brush he had been using from his hands.

Thankfully, the potion was an elixir, and so shared similar characteristics of preparation with other elixirs. As the majority of the prior year's content was based around that specific type of potion, the process was fairly effortless. Beside him, however, Hermione's work was anything but effortless as she violently cleaned the apparatus, nearly wearing down the cast pewter the cauldron was formed from in her frenzy.

To Harry, it appeared that things were going remarkably well. However, Harry was wrong.

Potions was a careful art, and as such it required a delicate touch as it only took the smallest of miss-measurements for things to go _totally_ wrong. The subject, it appeared, was not _that_ different from its lessons. Harry was not entirely sure how it happened, but upon review he would've had no other choice than to admit that there was no-one else to blame but himself.

He had been lost within his own mind, lost in the formulaic routine of slicing and shredding the various roots and herbs in front of him. In his mind, he had the utmost care in his actions and each morsel of material was cut to perfection. However, it was not only his mind that was involved in the potions assignment, and Hermione, it seemed, had an alternative opinion.

"Oh for goodness sake, would you cut those properly," she hissed, apparently fed up with his efforts.

"What am I doing wrong?" he whispered back.

"Don't you see? The way you're cutting the root, all of the structure of the plant is falling apart," Hermione said. "The potion won't bind properly like _that_."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention," said Harry, a slight pinkening in his cheeks as he resolved to perform his task properly.

"Well, you _should've._ " finished Hermione.

Harry set back to work, now with his absolute focus on the task in hand. The motions of his hand were careful, and assured, and as perfect as he could achieve.

His best, it seemed however, was not good enough for Hermione.

"Would you _please_ do it properly?" Hermione hissed once more, and try as he might, Harry could not handle it.

"I am doing it properly!" he whispered back, quietly furious. "This is as good as it gets! If you are so sure I'm doing it wrong, you do it!"

Harry handed her the scalpel with all too much fury for a potions practical. Hermione took it from him, and set to work proving him wrong. However, in that, she failed.

Harry said as much. "That is _exactly_ what I did, and you _know_ it!" Harry whispered.

"It isn't! It's far better, and you know it!" Hermione whispered back, animatedly, her wild hair flying all around as she spoke.

"Well if it is, I certainly can't see it!"

"That's your problem, you can't see things _right in front of you!_ " said Hermione.

And, with one wild gesture of her hand, sent the assorted potions ingredients flying to the ground.

Quickly, before Harry and Hermione could even think to react, Professor Snape had floated over soundlessly, a look of near-glee on his face.

"Well, it seems that I was right," said Snape. "You two are the _perfect_ match for each other. Your idiocy matches one another… _perfectly_. In fact, you two are so _compatible,_ I'm going to assign your detention together. Saturday afternoon - I expect you here promptly."

Once more, Harry heard the air fill with laughter as the Slytherin reveled in his suffering.

Harry was furious, and he knew Hermione that was also, however for her that anger was way-laid as she mortified at having a detention. However, they both knew that any complaining would serve only to make things worse for themselves.

"You'll spend the rest of the lesson cleaning up _your_ mess," continued the Potions professor. "I expect eight inches on the importance of _co-operation_ by the time of your detention. Get to work."

Harry and Hermione spent the rest of the lesson sweeping, and wiping down, the potions floor. Hermione also busied herself with staring daggers into Harry; it appeared, to him, that her shame had given way to rage. He imagined that with every motion of her hand, she imagined the floor to be his face.

However, Harry had another thought entirely.

He _needed_ to know how Professor Snape knew about what happened between the two of them.

However, he suspected in that moment he had more pressing issues. Like the growing likelihood that Hermione would smother him in his sleep.

* * *

 **So, there's the next chapter. Please feel free to let me know what you think, and what you would like to see in forthcoming chapters.**

 **I really appreciate all of you for reading, and for continuing to support this.**

 **Thank you.**


	11. Chapter 11

**In a rare spate of inspiration, here's another chapter.**

 **I think of this chapter as a sort of turning point of sorts, more so of Harry's approach than anything. I think from now on, we're going to see more agency within Harry, and I think the events of this chapter are the catalyst for that.**

 **In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Feel free to review it with your thoughts and what you'd like to see, I truly appreciate it.**

 **Anyway, here it is.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

Try as he might, Harry found himself unable to make even the most minute of dents into any meaningful work or research, academically, as the days approached Halloween.

He felt impossibly stupid for it, but just _knowing_ that on these days fourteen years before that his parents were living _with_ him, and they had no idea that in just a short matter of time they _weren't_ , still seemed so impossible. The world took Harry's parents from him, and in these times, that separation cut him deeply.

Harry's parents had not been that much older than he was when they met their fate. It was so incredibly, unbearably, _unfathomable_. To think that in just a few short years he could quite easily be where they were was terrifying to Harry.

Thankfully for Harry, the world seemed to shift focus at Halloween from any prior pre-occupation it may have had and onto Neville and the saga of _his_ parents sacrifice, and his subsequent rise to fame. Harry would watch how the world seemed, even more than ever, to become fascinated with his story, and Harry felt a great sympathy for him. It was one thing for your parents to be taken from you in mind and in body, as Harry's had, but to leave the body and take _only_ the mind, as Neville's had been, seemed all the crueler.

Neville seemed to fall into himself during these times, the confidence he usually wore so easily then appearing false. Harry noticed that, even in the limited exposure he had with Neville in the mornings and evenings, before and after sleep, he seemed to talk less. It certainly changed how life was in his dorm as the other's yearned desperately for Neville's leading presence.

Harry knew that Neville would visit his father at St Mungo's during his free time, and Harry would watch him as he returned to the dorm, the others already having fallen fast asleep. He appeared so worn down at those times, his face wearing the years of a much older person, and yet he had the eyes of a lost child. He looked just as Harry himself felt. Harry was not often presumptuous, but in those moments he believed that only he and Neville could truly understand what their lives were like. And, even then, Harry could not even begin to imagine the difficulty of Neville's life.

Harry, however, found himself wandering aimlessly about the castle more often than before, his mind searching for the peace the action once conjured. The paintings often called out to him then, asking how he was and where it was that he was going, but Harry ignored them. It was hard for Harry in these times to feel anything other than hopeless.

It was not just the time of year, however, that ailed Harry.

Despite his best efforts to forget about the lesson, Snape's actions stuck with Harry. And though Snape's ability to know _exactly_ what to say to rile Harry up in at a moment's notice was uncanny, it was not the only thing that gave Harry pause.

No, Harry could not shake the fact that Snape could get away with acting as he did. It angered Harry, infuriated him even, that Snape had been allowed to say and do the things he did without reproach. He was _supposed_ to be a teacher, an educator, a person worthy of respect, and yet he was anything but.

When Harry, wide-eyed and in awe of all things magic, had first had encountered the professor, he'd been intimidated of Snape, of the fact that a grown-up, and a fairly powerful one at that, was the one saying those things. He'd been afraid that if he said anything, if he complained too often, that someone was powerful as Snape could so easily take away the very wonders of magic that they offered.

However, that was no longer the case. He was a fourth year now. And he _knew_ he deserved better.

So, for the rest of the week, he'd considered his case. He knew that he had to bring it before the Headmaster; he knew that Professor Dumbledore had a kind heart, and Harry trusted him with making sure that the school was safe unquestionably. However, Harry also knew that he seemed to give more than that what could be considered a generous amount of leeway to the potions professor. But Harry trusted that if he were to offer a truthful account of what'd taken place, Dumbledore would help him.

So, during a very quiet Arithmancy lesson, a statement made remarkable by the fact that there were only ever four people present in the classroom. Professor Vector had yet to even _speak_ , instead trusting her sparse students to work independently. The class was not a popular one, with most Muggleborns already holding psychological scarring from dull Maths lessons, and even those brought up in the magical world ignored the subject in favour of areas that were more interesting and more practical.

In truth, Harry couldn't blame them. The only reason he was still taking the subject was because he couldn't drop it until after the OWLs had been taken. Harry imagined many of his fellow classmates felt the same.

However, with the time he'd spent thinking how best to solve his Snape problem, he'd also thought on Hermione. Or, more specifically, Tonks' words regarding Hermione. And even if he hadn't known at the time what he'd done wrong, it didn't mean that he hadn't done something. He _should_ be better. He _should've_ been a friend.

So, in what would go down as the most activity someone had shown in an Arithmancy classroom in the past decade, Harry slid a note of A5 paper to Hermione, checking to see if anyone noticed as he did so. Thankfully, Professor Vector was too interested in her own work to notice, Su Li was reading a copy of Daily Prophet, and Tracey Davis was sleeping soundly in her chair.

The note contained only two words.

 _I'm_ _sorry_.

Harry was too anxious to look back toward Hermione to see if she had read it, but he was glad he'd done it all the same. Because he'd hurt her, and that wasn't something he'd _ever_ wanted to happen. And he didn't care if they weren't friends, but he didn't want to live in a world where she was in pain because of him.

And, with the bundling anxiety he felt brewing in his stomach, he thought on what he would tell the Headmaster.

* * *

"Work's been dull recently," said Tonks, her back against a tree as she slowly worked through the mountain of paperwork she'd been set. She had decided, rather suddenly, that Harry was spending too much time inside the castle, and had forced him to sit with her beside the lake. The weather was hardly supportive of the idea, it being Scotland in mid-autumn, but Harry had simply conjured a blanket for the two of them, to which Tonks rolled her eyes and called him soft. "I know that Junior Aurors are supposed to be lackeys, but I could do without arthritis in my wrist before I'm twenty."

"Couldn't you ask for more work in the field?" asked Harry, taking note of the fact that Tonks _wasn't_ yet twenty. It was strange, that he'd not noticed her while she'd been at Hogwarts, but then again he imagined he was probably too busy avoiding the places that Tonks would've been.

"I don't want _more_ work, that just means more paperwork. I want more _interesting_ work," replied Tonks, smiling. "I love being stationed around Hogwarts, I do, but I just want something _interesting_ to do. I joined the aurors to make some change happen, and that's just not happening."

Harry thought Tonks looked _wrong_ doing such menial labour, the whirlwind she was just didn't make any sense being wasted in bureaucracy.

"You know, just once I'd like for evil pricks to use _something_ other than the Cruciatus curse," said Tonks, busily flicking through one of her case-files. "Obviously for the whole _'indescribable pain'_ thing, but mainly because they're just boring."

"Your main problem with dark wizards is their lack of creativity?"

"I mean, _kinda,_ yeah," replied Tonks. "It's all just Cruciatus, Cruciatus, Cruciatus with them. Just once I'd like for _somebody_ to use something interesting in their nefarious exploits. Couldn't just one of them use a bombarding curse? Or a bone-exploder? The end results are always gonna be the same. They're gonna be in Azkaban for an equally long time; it'd be nice if they could at least have the decency to make my paperwork more interesting."

Harry 'hmm-ed' noncommittally, earning a rare frown from Tonks. Her hair was blonde today, nearly silver, but for a moment it dulled.

"I thought dark wizards were supposed to be these evil masterminds, y'know? Turns out they're all just as dull as everyone else. Like this guy - _Amycus Carrow_ ," Continued Tonks, her quill dangling between her fingertips. She did not see the irritation that passed across Harry's face, the brief near-rage, as that name was mentioned. "He's in Azkaban for a few counts of torture and murder, and it's _always_ with the Cruciatus. He _does_ use the killing curse sometimes, though, which is at least novel. Do you think he got bored with the Cruciatus? Because I'd get bored with it."

"Can we talk about something else?" asked Harry irritably, and Tonks was shocked. Harry realised that he was angry, almost irrationally so, but he forced himself not to make a point of it, and with it being Tonks, he found that easy. "Just - Just not _that_?"

"Harry, are you okay?" asked Tonks, a look of worry on her face.

"Yeah, I'm fine, but can we just _not_ talk about that?" requested Harry. Tonks looked puzzled, but one look at the file in front of her clarified everything.

"Oh God - Harry I'm _sorry_ , I didn't know, I promise," apologised Tonks, her then-blue eyes bright and earnest. "I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay," replied Harry, curtly.

"In fairness, thinking was never my strong suit," said Tonks, reaching over to place her hand over his.

And, just like that, things were okay again.

Tonks returned to her paperwork, moving the file that had been in her lap out of her sight. Harry busied himself with his sketchbook. Whenever he was with Tonks, he felt the urge to just _create_. He longed to commit all that was _Tonks_ , to create and to make something. He was ten times the artist when his mind's eye was filled with thoughts of her.

"So Harry, how're your lessons?" asked Tonks. "Is Snape still as big of a prick as he was when I was there?"

Harry frowned. "Bigger, I imagine," replied Harry. "This might sound ridiculous, but I always feel like he is reading my mind."

Tonks laughed. "Yeah, it's his eyes. He's got that dead-eyed stare, like he's a crow or a vulture or something," she said. "I doubt he's using legilimency on children, though. I think that's a little dickish, even for him."

"What's _legilimency_?" asked Harry, a worrying sense of foreboding growing in his stomach.

"You don't know about legilimency? With all the reading you do?" asked Tonks. "I suppose you wouldn't, really. It's only popular in specific circles, those being the circles that the Black family are a part of, and said circles aren't the most open with their information. I found out about it, through mum.

"Basically, you know mind-reading?" Harry nodded. "It's magical mind-reading. A talented legilimens can read your thoughts as you think them, or they can see any of your memories. It got popular with the pure-blood politicians a while ago - made debating laws a lot easier I bet - but it grew out of use when the use of magic was banned in the Wizengamot. The Blacks and a few other dark families still keep teaching their kids, but unless you wanna have a constant migraine that you _can't_ get rid of, it's worthless."

It became very clear, _immediately_ , to Harry that Snape was doing precisely that.

"That would explain Snape's near-constant scowl," Harry mused to himself. Then, to Tonks. "Yeah, I think that's exactly what he's doing. Is it illegal?"

"Hold on, Harry. Are you genuinely considering the possibility that a Professor, someone who has a duty of care over their wards, is using legilimency on said wards?" asked Tonks, with something an awful lot like _excitement_ beginning to fill her voice. "Oh my God! This is _perfect_. And yes, its _really_ illegal - Azkaban illegal!"

Harry, however, did not share in her excitement. "I think Snape has been doing this for years, Tonks."

"Exactly! This is _exactly_ the sort of thing I wanted to be a part of when I signed up! This could be the sort of thing that gets me promoted to being a proper _auror,_ " said Tonks. "Isn't this great?"

Harry frowned. "Not really, Tonks," he said. "Snape has been reading my mind for years. Any secret, any thought, any fear I've ever had - he knows about. All this time, I've had no privacy because of this."

As Harry said this, the full weight of his own words began to fall upon him. Every time he missed his parents, every time he was scared when he was in a crowd and every time he thought about Tonks, Snape would have known; Harry bet that Snape was laughing at him, that Snape was _overjoyed_ on every occasion that Harry was miserable.

Worse, thought Harry, was that Snape would've known _just_ how much his own words stung Harry, and yet he still continued to hurt Harry.

Tonks face fell as understanding dawned upon. "Oh god, I wasn't thinking, was I?" she asked. "I've been doing that a lot today, haven't I?"

Harry reached over, putting his hand over hers, just as she would to him. Tonks smiled.

"I've just been really worried about work lately," continued Tonks. "It's pretty well known in the department that they send the unwanted juniors up to Hogsmeade to rot, and I really don't want that to be me."

"You're far too good for that, Tonks," said Harry.

"You can't possibly know that. But I hope you're right," replied Tonks, returning the smile. "It's just that I'm one of the youngest junior aurors in the department and I really hope they don't think they've made a mistake in letting me in so early."

Harry smiled at her. "I think it can only be a good thing," he said, a rare positive tone in his voice. "If they thought you were good enough then, then maybe this is just their way of letting you find your feet, before they give you anything too difficult."

A touch of fondness coloured Tonks eyes, warming their colour from hazel to brown. "I wish I was as hopeful as you are," she said. "But my gut tells me that I need to prove myself up here or they might show me the door."

And _Harry's_ gut knew that would never happen.

"In that case, with this you'd be able to do that _and_ make my life better."

"A win-win, then," replied Tonks. "So, with Snape, you're going to need to have proof, and proving crimes of the mind are notoriously difficult. I'd have to check my auror manual, but I think you'd need someone else to corroborate your claims at the very least."

"Couldn't I just take Veritaserum?"

"You're under the age of majority, so no," said Tonks, shaking her head. "And our court of law doesn't allow a memory to be used as evidence because they're so easy to tamper with."

He'd _have_ to see the Headmaster then. Harry had told Dumbledore about Snape's comments for as long as he'd taught Harry. Surely that meant that he'd at least understand Harry's perspective. He'd have to get the Headmaster to validate his claims, because the only other option was currently an unknown.

"I think I should be able to take Veritaserum," said Harry, longing for the topic to change. His world was already bleak enough, and Tonks was _supposed_ to be his one reprieve. He decided that, then. "I've read the studies on how its use affects brain growth, and modern Veritaserum is almost totally different than the one that caused problems. It doesn't have troll blood in it, for one."

As he spoke, Tonks half-smiled at him in the most _singular_ way he'd ever seen. Her every fibre seemed to scream _fondness_ , her cheek forming a dimple just show such a thing. Harry could barely cope; he wanted to _paint_ her until the end of time, with his only fear being he'd never do her justice.

" _Nerd_ ," was the only thing she said in response, and it caused a great warmth in Harry's chest.

And Harry knew that, he knew nothing, but that _had_ to mean something.

"You're only saying that because I know more about your job than you do," said Harry. "And, therefore, are better at your job than you are."

"Oh, _really_?" asked Tonks, a tone of amusement in her voice, her hair flashing bright red as she did. "Just because you can name the bloke that invented the sparks charm, you think you're better than me?"

"Wilfred Anderlecht, by the way," replied Harry mostly to make Tonks roll her eyes. Harry loved watching her do that; the show of fond exasperation was something he'd never seen directed at him before.

"Okay, _das wunderkind_ , riddle me this," said Tonks. "Can you cast silently?"

" _No_ ," replied Harry, his complexion reddening, eyes searching the blanket he'd conjured.

"And did you get an Outstanding on your charms NEWT?" asked Tonks, her face showing her joy at teasing Harry so.

"I haven't _taken_ my OWLs yet, let alone my NEWTs."

"Well then, until you do, It seems you need to _respect your elders_ ," said Tonks. Harry smiled, his focus returning to the work in front of him, as Tonks did the same.

"Hey Tonks?"

"Yeah, Harry?"

"Can you teach me to cast silently?"

"I'd do _anything_ to avoid paperwork."

And so that was how he spent his afternoon. Not in fear of what was to come, nor in the sorrow that had pervaded from him so completely, but with a lightness that he'd found nowhere else.

* * *

Harry's Transfiguration lesson passed, despite his fondness of the subject, in a very similar manner to the rest of the lessons he'd had in the week. Hermione still had yet to respond to his apology, and as the time passed, he had began to debate whether that was a bad thing at all, and that perhaps the longer she prolonged their departure from one another, the more likely it would be that she would not hate him.

And yet, it was not thoughts of Hermione that filled his head during Professor McGonagall's lesson that day. Rather, it was thoughts of his Dad.

He'd been told by quite a few teachers that his Dad loved Transfiguration, and that he'd been truly great at it. Harry wondered what he was like as a student; was he attentive? Harry knew that he was a bit of a trouble-maker, but he'd found it difficult to imagine that he was anything like that under the eyes of the Professor.

He wondered if he found Transfiguration as fascinating as Harry did, or if he had simply been good at it. Harry wondered if he held his wand the same, or if they sounded similar when they were casting, or if they felt the same sense of satisfaction when they performed a spell correctly. Harry wondered if he had ever sat in the same seat as his father.

He wondered if his Dad was proud of him.

"Mr Potter, could you stay behind please?" Professor McGonagall asked, just as he was beginning to leave the classroom, his mind a million miles away. Harry did as she asked, his feet remaining rooted behind his desk.

"Shall we pick up from where we left our conversation before you nearly collapsed on my coffee table?" asked the Professor after the rest of the class had vacated the room; they did not have to wait long, for it had been a double lesson based purely on theory. His peers could not seem to get out fast enough. "Now, you mentioned that you didn't think that the spells in question worked with modern apparatus. Have you any evidence to support that?"

"Well, in most of the texts I've read, they talk about the area surrounding the wizard becoming _wreathed_ in magic, which would seem to negate any of the magic coming back toward me or corrupting the spell being cast," replied Harry, recalling one of the texts he'd personally translated. "I just don't think that affect is possible with a wand."

"Are you absolutely sure that what your casting is being cast correctly, and that you have a full understanding of the _nature_ of the spells?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"The nature of the spell is the problem, Professor. It's too chaotic to be used with a wand."

The Transfiguration master pondered his words, a deep concentration clear within her eyes. "I see, Mr Potter," she said. "I'd have to look through your manuscripts, but based upon the work you have submitted to me throughout the years, I highly doubt I'd arrive at a different conclusion."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "So what do you suggest?"

"I'm not entirely sure what there is _to_ suggest," replied Professor McGonagall. "It's not as though we can simply _procure_ a staff for you to use - Olivanders stopped making staffs around the time the Headmaster was born, and Gregorivitch much before that. The art is all but lost."

"Professor, wasn't your mastery earned on wand motions?" asked Harry, somewhat rhetorically, though his teacher nodded nonetheless. "Do you think there is a way that we could use a specific wand motion to control the magic, or even develop a new one altogether?"

"Definitely not," replied Professor McGonagall, immediately. "Wand motions are directive. They force magic into following a certain path; if the purpose of this magic is _not_ to be controlled in such a manner, then that wouldn't be useful to you."

"Then I suppose we're at a dead end," said Harry, dejected. He had spent a stupendous amount of time on the subject, after all.

"I wouldn't say that, Mr Potter. Such negativity wouldn't serve you well at all," said the Professor. "Do not give up hope so soon. I have thought on it, and I don't think they are _impossible_ to control. I think that it is an issue lies within the caster, rather than any issue of spell structure."

"So you think that I'm performing them incorrectly?" asked Harry tonelessly. His mind was simply too far removed to have any reaction.

"I would not say _that_ ," replied Professor McGonagall. "Usually, I do not put stock in anything that does not have sound theoretical backing, but given that there is so little theory to base anything upon, I shall make an exception here.

"I think you, being a teenager, do not understand yourself well enough. I don't think you truly understand your _own_ nature well enough, and that will impede you in performing the spell properly. From what you have said, this spell requires a truthfulness to one's own self, and I don't think that is possible when one is the age that you are." Finished the Professor, and Harry wished to disagree, to say that he had spent so long with little more than his own thoughts and that he doubted _anyone_ knew him quite as well as he knew himself, but he knew in his heart that she was probably correct.

"So what should I do?" asked Harry, disappointment creeping onto his face.

"I think you should look to prove me wrong," replied Professor McGonagall. "My words are only my opinion, and I could quite easily be wrong. You _are_ talented in Transfiguration, deeply so in fact - I dare say if there is anyone in this castle able to do use this magic, it would be you, especially given the effort you have gone to."

Harry nodded to her, and made to leave the Professor's classroom. "Before you go, Mr Potter, if I could say one more thing?" asked the Professor.

Harry nodded once more.

"I couldn't help but notice your behaviour during my lesson today," continued the Professor. "Is there anything you wish to talk about?"

Harry shook his head. "No thank you, Professor," he responded quietly, his eyes rooted onto the floor.

Harry did not see it, but the Professor's eyes softened for a moment in sympathy, before returning to her usual look of clear focus. "Mr Potter," she said. " _Harry_."

Harry looked up at that, meeting her eyes.

"I understand that this time of year could be difficult for you, and your feelings are understandable given the circumstance," continued Professor McGonagall, her eyes holding his gaze. "I understand it can be difficult to talk about, but my door is always open should you need it, just as the Headmaster's door will be too.

"You're not the only one who lost them, after all."

Harry gave the Professor a half-smile in thanks, before turning and leaving the room, pulling the door to a close afterward.

Harry's mind raced as he walked the halls. He knew that he _should_ talk about them, about how losing them _still_ hurt. He knew that he should allow the steady pain that formed within him to subside, that talking about it would only help. Professor McGonagall wanted nothing but to help, and he _should_ have accepted her help.

But he knew that he couldn't. He wanted to learn about his _parents_. He didn't want to know about their deaths, and he especially didn't want to talk about how he felt about their deaths. He wanted them to exist, not as corpses, but as being alive. They _were_ the happiness they created in the people that knew them, and the good they did. They were not their death, and to talk about their death felt to Harry as though he was allowing death's touch to mire their memory.

To rest of the world, they might be dead, but Harry wanted their joy and their spirit to continue on. Even if it were only to continue on within him.

* * *

It was without airs or announcement that Harry knocked on the Headmaster's office door that evening, the sun having almost set and the last light of day barely clinging on to its place in the world. The gargoyle that sat as sentry moved from its place as he did so, the stone scratching against the floor.

"Ah Harry, I was in the midst of sending Fawkes to collect you, but it seems that fate has taken care of that for me," began the Headmaster, a youthful look upon his face.

"What was it that you wanted to see me about, Professor?"

"It comes on the heels of Sirius' request to you, actually," said Professor Dumbledore, with an easiness to his being. "It appears that your suspicions of tampering were correct. Fortunately for us, the culprit did not account for the fact that the purpose of the age line was two-fold. It does not just exclude the youthful; it also excludes those that do _not_ belong to a school. You can see the benefits of keeping the latter benefit clandestine."

Harry, rather than being overjoyed, was confused. "But Professor, I was there when it happened and I could see that the Goblet had been altered in some way."

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah yes," he said. "The age-line itself is connected to the goblet. I imagine when the line was breached, the goblet will have reacted."

"So, everything will be okay?" asked Harry, a touch of hope in his voice.

"As far as the tournament is concerned, I should think so. The Goblet will perform as expected, provided nothing calamitous goes on," replied Dumbledore with a twitching smile. "Now Harry, why is it that you came to visit _me_?"

Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself.

"Professor, I have reason to suspect that Snape is using legilimency on students."

At once, the lightness of Albus Dumbledore left him as his blue eyes became steely. "Are you being entirely serious Harry? This is not born of a vendetta?" asked the Headmaster, stone coating his words.

"I do think so," replied Harry, carefully. "He just _knows_ things about me. Things he _couldn't_ possibly know otherwise. He seems to know exactly what to say to infuriate me; he has known these things for years, for as long as he's taught me."

"I see," said the Headmaster, a million thoughts no doubt running through his mind. He radiated a strange calm, almost swan-like in his serenity. Except underneath the water of the lake was a cool _rage_. "Do you have any evidence to support your claim?"

"He, well, he made some comments in our last Potions lesson, and everyone in the class will have heard them too," replied Harry, trying to keep his voice level despite a great anxiety that threatened to rise up. "They were about… _Personal_ things that happened, and there is _no_ way he could have known about them unless he used legilimency."

"Are you _absolutely_ sure?" asked the Headmaster once more. "Knowledge is something that finds its way around even against our best efforts to stop it."

"It's _me_ , Headmaster," said Harry. "There is _no_ way."

Harry watched as Professor Dumbledore sat back in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, the weight of the world forced upon his shoulders

"This, then, represents a problem," said Dumbledore, after a heavy silence. "What I'm to tell you does not leave this room, Harry. You must make that _absolutely_ certain."

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. His chest _hurt_ , his entire frame alive with nervous energy.

"As you will know, Professor Snape was a Death-Eater prior to Voldemort's fall, and as such _should_ have been tried and convicted as one," began the Headmaster. "It is also known that in the dying embers of the conflict, Professor Snape turned coat and began to work in our favour, and in return he was granted immunity from said conviction, provided he worked in a position where I could ensure he would not turn to other side."

Harry frowned, though what he was hearing was not new. No, it was the sense of foreboding that the information brought.

"What is not known is that Professor Snape is _still_ a Death-Eater, with my full knowledge and allowance to act as such."

"But how is that possible, Professor? Unless-,"

"I have reason to suspect that Voldemort is not dead, as many initially expected." said Dumbledore.

Harry was shocked, his legs falling from beneath him as he fell into the chair beneath him.

"B-but How?" asked Harry, the words falling out of his mouth.

"I do not know, Harry, in truth. Perhaps because when he cast the Cruciatus curse upon Neville, it was simply not enough to cause Voldemort to be killed. I do not know," said the Professor, earnestly. "I have tasked Professor Snape with finding out exactly that."

"B-but I don't understand, Professor," said Harry, his voice quiet and strained.

"No, I suppose not," said Dumbledore. "I believe that your claims might have merit, Harry, that Professor Snape may be using the mind arts to search your thoughts. I also do not doubt that, should this be brought to him, he would either deny it or say that he was acting under my orders."

"So what are you saying, Headmaster?" asked Harry, the stoking of anger beginning to occur.

"I'm saying, Harry, that at this moment there is simply not much that we can do," said the Headmaster, a sorrowful look on his face. "Until he causes damage to a student's mind, there is simply too much at stake."

"So you're just going to allow him to do as he _wants_?" asked Harry, hotly.

"No Harry, I'm not," said Dumbledore. "I'm going to speak to the Professor, quietly, about this. I'm going to instruct him that I will be watching him closely, and should anything occur under my watch, he will _not_ get away lightly."

"So what am I to do, then?" asked Harry. "He will still use legilimency in his lessons, I'm sure of it. And, because of your suspicions, he'll be able to do that without a problem?"

A twitch of the Headmaster's cheek belied his irritation. "No Harry, he won't," he said. "I know you may not trust the Professor, but I do. And, more importantly, I trust that he will recognise when to make the correct choice when one is presented in front of him."

Harry was incensed. "These are my _thoughts_ you are allowing him free reign of with your trust, Professor," said Harry, loudly, his agitation skewing his words. "You are allowing Snape to toy with my mind, to invade my privacy, based on _your_ trust. Of your beliefs. Well, Headmaster, what of my _beliefs_? I know this man is looking for an excuse to hurt me, and you are simply _offering_ it to him. How are you allowing this?"

At his words, the Headmaster seemed to deflate, falling slightly in his seat. "I am asking you to do something here that I do not wish to, Harry," he said. "But I implore you Harry. Please, will you trust me?"

And, at his words, Harry himself deflated visibly, his ire quelled. This _was_ Dumbledore. A man that Harry had trusted implicitly. A man that had opened the door to the wizarding world for Harry, and had guided him clearly along the way. He had trusted him, ever before.

"I suppose, Professor,"

And it seems he would continue to do so.

"However, Professor, I want you to teach me how to protect myself from legilimency so I can be sure," continued Harry. "I also want you to _promise_ me that the moment you see him do it, you send him away from here. He has tormented _too_ many people, and for far too long. Also, Snape gave myself and Hermione Granger detentions that we both did _not_ deserve, and I _refuse_ to enter _his_ classroom without supervision again."

The Headmaster's eyes clouded over for a moment as he processed what Harry had said. Then, he nodded.

"Of course, Harry," he replied, after a silence. "I promise you that."

"Thank you, Headmaster," said Harry.

Albus Dumbledore then stood from his desk, turning his back on Harry and facing the bookshelf that covered the back of his office. He found what he was looking for quickly, sliding it from its place with his index finger before carefully holding what appeared to be a thickly bound tome within both of his hands.

"This, Harry, is what I expect you would wish to have," said the Headmaster, gesturing to the book. "This is the single most detailed tome regarding the mind arts ever written. Should you take what is written in this book to heart, there is not a soul alive that could penetrate your thoughts."

The Headmaster passed the book to Harry who took it gratefully, though the knowledge that he would not need it if Snape was not maliciously incompetent did not evade him.

Harry nodded to the Headmaster, rising from his chair and leaving the room, pausing only to raise a hand to wave Dumbledore goodbye.

He walked quickly through the corridors, a brewing rage energising his steps.

How _dare_ the Headmaster do that? How _dare_ he place his whims ahead of the student's security? Of Harry's security?

Harry did not care that the Headmaster thought that Voldemort was coming back. He cared about the fact that the Dumbledore was allowing a guilty man off the hook because it _suited_ him. And that did not sit well with Harry. Not at all. And, as he reached the Gryffindor dormitory, an idea was already forming in his mind.

Because, if Dumbledore, for reasons that did not truly make sense to Harry, was content to let Snape walk scot-free, then that meant that Harry needed to take matters into his own hands.

He trusted Dumbledore. He would follow the Headmaster to the very ends of the earth. He would break down the gates of hell so long as he had the Professor next to him while he did it. But he knew that he couldn't trust him with Snape. Dumbledore had too much to lose, and too much invested in the man to see Harry's side rationally.

He would trust Dumbledore to keep his promise, but Harry had not promised anything at all. And for good reason.

If Dumbledore was not going to help him put an end to Snape, than he was going to do it. All by _himself._

* * *

 **Again, feel free to review and tell me your thoughts.**

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Until next time.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Here's the new chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy it; I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Again, in-between writing the last two chapters, I've tidied up some of the older chapters and hopefully made some of the parts cleaner/better. If you've read through the whole thing, let me know what you think.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

For Harry, the weekend had not arrived quickly enough. His lessons had turned into an unmitigated disaster, entirely due to his inability to focus. Plus, on Sunday, Tonks' had said that she wouldn't have any work to do so she was free all day, which seemed for Harry to be the only bright spot of the week.

Following his talk with Dumbledore, Harry had been happy to note that neither he nor Hermione had been required to go to Snape's detention. Nonetheless, he still found himself sat in the library writing the essay set, more so as an effort in creative writing than any particular obedience. He did not plan on even handing the paper in to Snape. The act of writing such a paper allowed his mind a numb sense of clarity, not unlike the freedom one feels whilst truly bored. Such a freedom was preferred to the alternative; that being the never-ending thoughts of his orphaning, playing on repeat in the back of his mind like a broken record.

The importance of cooperation, that being the subject of said essay, was not immediately obvious to Harry. He supposed that such a point was one developed in childhood among peers. Harry, having not been allowed to find companionship by virtue of having Dudley as an almost constant presence in his childhood, was seemingly stunted in this regard. As a result, Snape's task was more challenging than most of the essays he would usually set.

Harry, however, was saved at any of his misguided attempts to write about the virtues of a subject he knew _frighteningly_ little about by the sound of the library doors opening, the noise pricking his ears up and entirely diverting his - admittedly dwindling - attention from the essay before him, anxiety prickling his skin as the fate of another person being in the sparsely populated library set in.

Such anxiety was only worsened when the doors opened to reveal one Hermione Granger. Immediately, Harry forced his eyes onto the paper before him.

Hermione was a particularly strange subject for Harry, or rather her reaction to him was. His reaction to her had settled on a strangled sort of hope that she would forgive him, as the knowledge that he had caused her pain did not sit well with him. He did not, in truth, know whether or not he wished for them to be friends again as he doubted they were compatible to be such a thing in the first place, as her belligerence did not seem to mix well with his need for quiet.

Harry heard her footsteps approaching his table, her rucksack slamming into the hardwood floor of the library and the chair that sat opposite him suddenly being occupied. Harry looked up, expecting to see the same anger that Hermione showed him in their Potions lesson, only to be pleasantly surprised to see Hermione's brown eyes showing an uncharacteristic nervousness; a nervousness that was no doubt mirrored within his.

There was silence for a moment, with neither of the two of them wishing to be the first to speak. For a moment, Harry considered simply ignoring the awkwardness that fell around the pair, and he imagined that Hermione would probably follow his lead and do the same.

However, it was Hermione that broke the silence.

"You got me out of detention," she blurted out, her voice sounding as though it was not at all connected to her brain. Hermione herself looked shocked at her own deceleration.

Harry nodded. "I did, yeah."

"You didn't have to do that, you know."

"It _was_ my fault you were there in the first place," replied Harry. "Had I been performing the instructions properly, nothing would have happened."

Hermione half-smiled at him. "Harry, I think we both know that isn't the reason what happened, _happened_."

"I suppose so," said Harry. "Nonetheless, I don't think either of us deserved to go to detention for what happened."

"Thank you for that," said Hermione. Harry nodded in response.

An awkward silence fell over the table once more. To Harry, Hermione looked as though she was troubled by something.

"I'm sorry for acting the way I did," said Hermione, her cheeks pink.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Hermione," said Harry. "I should be the one apologising, if anything. I didn't think it through, and you got hurt. So I'm sorry."

"Harry, you didn't do anything wrong," said Hermione, exasperated. "If _I_ had been less of an idiot, I would've realised that you were just being a friend to me, and I ruined that by being stupid."

"If it helps, I think you really are quite intelligent, and pretty, I just don't think of you in that way," said Harry, without a hint of embarrassment.

He wanted to tell her then just why it was that things did not work out as she had wished. That if there was not another woman that Harry was absolutely infatuated with, that things may have gone perfectly. That there was another girl who occupied him _entirely_. He wanted to, but he couldn't bring himself to.

"You don't have to lie to me to make me feel better," replied Hermione.

"I'm not lying, I promise," said Harry. "Your future has so much more in store than _me._ You could do far better. I'd just be wasting your time."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't think that's true, Harry," she said, and Harry could see the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. "For once, I just thought that _someone_ would like me, and wanted to spend time with me. I should've known _better_. I should've known that no-one would like me."

Harry looked at Hermione then, her bashful look shocking him. This was a girl that he had thought had an unlimited reservoir of self-belief. Yet, there she sat, doubting herself. And it was because of him.

"I _do_ want to spend time with you, and I do like you, just not like that," Asked Harry. "And, Hermione - Why should it matter? You are the smartest person in our year. You have more drive than anyone else, and you have more ambition than anyone else. What should other people's opinions matter to you? You are a wonderful person, you don't need other people to decide whether or not you're worthwhile. And, you _will_ find someone - someone who deserves you, and who understands you. I promise."

"Oh _Harry_ , why couldn't you just like me?" Hermione asked, her voice watery. "You keep saying all of these lovely things, and it makes it really hard to not like you. And because I know you don't like me, and it makes everything just awful."

And Harry knew then that what Hermione deserved was the truth. Despite how nerve-wrecking saying such a thing was.

"I like someone else," said Harry, his eyes focused on the table so as to steel himself for what he was saying.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Who is she?" asked Hermione. "Is it that girl from Beauxbatons? Because you know that's just her allure making to make you like her, you know."

Harry shook his head. "No, it's not her," he replied, chuckling a little as he did. "No, she's, well, she's called Tonks."

It was strange, thought Harry, that even in such an awkward situation such as this one, that he could not say Tonks' name without smiling.

"I take it she doesn't go to Hogwarts?" asked Hermione. "Is she a muggle you know?"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "She's, well, you know the auror that's stationed at Hogsmeade? The Metamorphmagus?" Hermione nodded. "That's her."

Strangely, Hermione did not seem offended, or annoyed, or any of the reactions Harry would have anticipated. Instead, she laughed.

"Wow." Said Hermione. "You seem to be able to pick people about as well as I do."

Harry smiled in spite of that.

"You are aware she's about ten years older than we are, aren't you?"

"Five, actually."

"And that she's an _adult_ , and you're just a teenager?" asked Hermione, rhetorically. _Adult_ was probably the last thing Harry would call Tonks, but he nodded nonetheless. "She has a job, and she's probably far more mature than you, and she probably wants more than what a teenager can give to her?"

Harry nodded. It was the unfortunate truth of it, after all.

"We don't get to choose who we like." said Harry. "Believe me, if I had any choice in the matter, I'd've chosen someone at least slightly attainable - someone who had even the smallest possibility of liking me back - but I don't."

"Really?"

Harry considered it for a moment. "Not really, no," he admitted. " _Even_ if I had the choice, I'd still pick Tonks. I'd happily pick her."

"Why though?" Hermione asked. "Wouldn't you _rather_ have someone who might actually share how you feel?"

"Not if that person wasn't Tonks. I'm sorry, but no-one else really holds a candle to her. It's just _different_ with her." said Harry. "Before her, it felt like life was just a beam of white light, but now she's here, it's like she's a prism and I can see _all_ of the colours now."

"Are you absolutely sure that this isn't just some crush?" asked Hermione, her tone oddly kind. "That this isn't just you liking the look of her and forming an attachment around that? Because that's perfectly normal, and you'd not be the first."

"Without question," answered Harry, immediately. "She's - she's the best part of my day. Or my week. Or really, my life right now."

"Have you told her how you feel?"

"No."

"Have you _thought_ about telling her how you feel?" asked Hermione.

Harry laughed at the thought. "I've _thought_ about it a great deal," he said. "However, I can only really see it going one way, and her rejection would probably ruin my life, so I don't really see myself going through with it."

"What are you going to do about it then?" asked Hermione, softly.

"Wallow alone, I suppose," said Harry, laughing resignedly. "Though it's not too bad. I think just being able to see her, and talking to her, and seeing her smile and watching her eyes light up, or watching her hair change colour when she's happy, or making her laugh and knowing that it was _me_ that made that beautiful sound happen, might be enough."

Hermione smiled with commiseration. "Merlin, I thought I had it bad," she muttered, to which Harry laughed, mostly in self-deprecation.

"Oh and by the way, if it makes _you_ feel any better, you've made me feel much better," continued Hermione.

"It does," said Harry, smiling at her.

That was all he wanted, after all.

Then, Harry said. "So, would you consider us being friends again?"

Hermione thought on it, worrying her bottom lip as she did. "I don't know, truthfully," admitted Hermione. "It's not that I don't _want_ it," she quickly added. "I just think it might be difficult for me to see you as just that, for the time being."

"I'll be here if you decide you can," said Harry, half-smiling at her. Hermione returned it, though a little awkwardly, before standing standing up, taking her bag with her.

"Thank you, Harry," said Hermione. Then, she turned and left to another part of the library, leaving him alone once more. "This - this was nice."

And as she left, Harry felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

* * *

Time seemed to pass in a strange sort of rhythm at this time of year for Harry. Days seemed to alternate between crawling through time in a mimicry of walking through treacle, and racing through the hours as though the Father Time himself was nipping at his heels. As a result, Harry found himself slightly disorientated to look away from his essay to his tattered watch and find that it was time to go and talk to Sirius.

Sirius had insisted that Harry use a fireplace other than the one in the Gryffindor common room for their meeting; Harry had wondered initially why the Headmaster would not be able to volunteer his fire, though he soon realised that at Hogwarts the walls _talk_ , and there were few walls quite as loquacious as the Headmaster's.

Instead, Harry found himself wandering within the southern side of the castle, in a corridor that he doubted had been used in nearly a hundred years. He'd had to walk through a passageway charmed to look as though it were simply part of the brickwork, not unlike the one at Kings Cross station. Sirius had told Harry that this part of the castle was once where Alchemy was taught by the former Headmaster, though much like said subject, it had fallen into disrepair over the years.

However, through a strange quirk of mismanagement and disorganisation, there still existed a working floo system within the old staff-room, so the locale became the perfect rendezvous point.

And, just as his ever-reliable watch twitched its hour hand to 11, the fireplace coughed to life, and out-popped Sirius' head.

"Evening, Harry," he began, stifling a yawn as he spoke. "Sorry - I've had a… _hectic_ couple of days, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, really?" asked Harry. "Has there been a development in your case? Have you had to move to avoid the aurors? Are you okay?"

"Whoa, Harry, calm down!" said Sirius. "Nothing like that has happened; believe me, I'd not be talking like this with you if it had. Everything's alright."

"I don't understand then?" asked Harry, his voice rising in confusion. "You said it's been hectic."

"Well - Merlin, I can't believe I'm talking to _Prongs'_ kid of all people about this," muttered Sirius, mostly to himself. "I've had _company_ over the past few days and it's left me a bit _exhausted_ , if you catch my meaning."

"Oh… _Oh_ ," realised Harry, his face reddening somewhat. He had no allusions about the sort of person Sirius was, but to confront it was still a little strange to Harry. "Well, it's good to know you're not feeling lonesome."

"Oh Harry, that's the last thing I'm feeling right now," said Sirius. "I think it's safe to say that I'm feeling particularly sociable lately. Especially after spending some time with that Veela - such a _sociable_ group of people, they are. What was her name again? Apple? Pauline? It'll come to me at some point."

Harry chuckled politely at his Godfather. It was not what he had in mind from one of the last remaining links to his parents, but it _was_ something.

"I'm glad to hear that being a fugitive hasn't put a dampener on your life," said Harry, though that was more guesswork than observation. He had no frame of reference, after all. "But are you sure you should be quite... _sociable_? What if the DMLE hears about you?"

"Believe me, the last thing my friends here want is _less_ time with me, Harry," said Sirius, an easy smile on his face coming through with crystal clarity, despite the fire. "They'll be discrete."

Harry could've done without much of what his Godfather had told him. It was, for all intents and purposes, what may once have been a close family member telling him about his exploits.

"So Harry, any word on the tournament?" continued Sirius.

"Dumbledore's said that Neville is safe and sound," said Harry, smiling a little. "Apparently the age-line stopped anyone interfering. So it looks like Neville might finally have a normal year, after all."

"I wouldn't count your dragons before they've hatched, Harry. From the sounds of it, trouble follows him like winter follows autumn," said Sirius. "Still, it's good to hear. Maybe Hogwarts might actually go a year without a major event happening - it'd be the first time that happened since, well, since before even _I_ went there."

"Has Hogwarts _always_ been like this, then?" asked Harry. "Has it always been just _chaos_?"

"The magical _world_ has always been like this, mate," said Sirius. "It's the nature of the beast. You have _magic_ \- weird shit's going to happen, whether you like it or not."

"Reassuring."

"It's the truth," said Sirius, chuckling. "In our world, you've got to be prepared for anything. There's just so many crazy people that something _has_ to happen to you eventually. It's funny - your mother used to say that with all of the shit that goes on, it's a statistical _certainty_ that you're bound to eventually get caught in the crossfire one day, and all you can do is try and do is control the damage."

Harry frowned for a moment as he realised _just_ how true his Mum's words would turn out to be. Sirius, however, had no such worry.

"Lily was _obsessed_ with Maths by the way," continued Sirius. "I think that's why she was so good at Charms in the first place - she used to say that it's all just logic, really, so why wouldn't she be great at it? She loved it so much that she used to do Maths problems for fun, as in whenever she was bored. I remember one time she tried to get Prongs' to do one with her, and he transfigured her paper into a crane, and made it fly out of Gryffindor tower."

"I take it my Dad didn't share her enthusiasm?" Harry asked, a wide smile on his face.

"Oh Merlin, no," said Sirius. "At Hogwarts, James used his brain for three things: thinking about Lily, thinking about Transfiguration, and thinking about how to prank _Snape_. He didn't leave room for much else."

Harry was glad to know that both he and his father enjoyed the thought of seeing Snape suffer.

"Speaking of Snape," began Harry. "You know your family, the Blacks?"

Sirius nodded. "I try not to," he said, wryly.

"Did they teach you anything about Legilimency?" asked Harry, to which Sirius once more nodded.

"I've tried to forget most of it, in truth," said Sirius. "I could never abide the side-effects that came with it, myself. They were murder."

"Would you happen to know how to prove if someone was _using_ Legilimency? Is there any specific tell?"

Sirius looked thoughtful for a moment, an odd look on his features. "I'm not sure, Harry," he said. "I seem to recall something about detecting mind magic, though I can't remember how. It's been nearly twenty years, I'm ashamed to admit."

Harry smiled in spite of it. The word detection pricked his ears up immediately. That meant that the magic itself was detectable - which was the wizarding equivalent of a smoking gun in terms of illegal activities. It was about as clear a proof as anything that something had taken place.

"Thank you, Sirius," said Harry, before yawning. "I think I should go back to my dorm soon; I wouldn't want to get caught out by Filch and his cat."

Sirius smiled at Harry. "It's nice to see that certain things never change," said Sirius. "Oh, before you go, could I just ask one thing?"

Harry nodded.

"Are you okay?" Questioned Sirius. "Because I know this time of year can't be easy for you," he quickly added. "Merlin, it's not easy for me, and I'm _supposed_ to be able to handle it."

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Harry, tonelessly. He attempted to smile, but it came out a strange quarter-grin.

"You know you're allowed to talk about it?" said Sirius. "It took me awhile to accept that. That just because it happened a while ago, doesn't mean I can just automatically understand it. Or rather, come to terms with it - I don't think I'll ever understand what happened to them. I know I might not be the first person you would want to talk to - we've haven't known each other that long, basically only five minutes, and I know I wasn't there when I really should've been - but I can be there for you now, if you need me."

"As I said, I'm fine Sirius." repeated Harry. He even managed to half-convince himself.

"If you're sure?" asked Sirius finally. Harry contented himself to nod. "But before you leave, there's something I want you to have. If you look at the chest of drawers next to you, I told my owl to put it in there. It's just something that ought to have belonged to you, and now it will."

Harry looked to his left, where the aforementioned drawers stood. He opened the top drawer, and lo and behold, there sat his gift…whatever it was.

"What is it, Sirius?" asked Harry. Dimly, he thought that if owls could open drawers and access parts of Hogwarts that _99%_ of its populous couldn't, then it was really only a matter of time before they took over the world.

As Tonks said, o _wls are practically Merlin_. The thought made Harry smile, in spite of the conversation he was then having.

"That is a great question," said Sirius, grinning. "I don't think I possess the vocabulary to properly pontificate the perfection that lies within your purview. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to educate and explain."

Harry smiled at the sheer ridiculousness of this all. That here was this _supposed_ hardened criminal, a wanted rogue, talking as though he was the master of his own little circus. In a way, Harry supposed that he was.

"What you currently hold within your right hand is the power of _omniscience_ , young one," he continued. "It gives its user the scope with which to view the world, to know the movements of your greatest enemies." Then, he added, with a wink. " _Or_ the girl you fancy."

"It is the guiding light in the darkness. It's a beacon of hope in the doubt. The warmth in the freezing cold - I could go on."

"Really?" Asked Harry, doubtfully. "Because, to me, it looks like some empty parchment."

"And that is your folly," said Sirius, pseudo-wisely. "You have not the scope with which to view the full picture. _But_ , with that _so called_ piece of parchment, you will."

"Okay, nothing you've said has clarified anything so far," said Harry. "What is it, Sirius?"

"Well, what is _anything_ to _anyone_? What is magic to a muggle? What is hope to the hopeless? What is _shampoo,_ to Snape?" asked Sirius, and Harry had to admire the man's strangeness. He truly wondered if Azkaban had loosened some of the screws, or if his Godfather had always been quite as dramatic. "All questions we couldn't possibly answer."

"So, what is it?"

"Well, if you want to be incredibly specific, it's a map," he said, before raising a hand to halt Harry's interruption. "But! But! It's not just _any old map_. No, it's a map of the _entirety_ of the Castle and the grounds. Every nook, every hiding spot, every broom closet. _Everything_ is on this map. The moment you tap your wand on this parchment and say ' _I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good_ ', your new world will await you. I pray you use this gift to the greatest possible effect - It is an _entirely_ unique gift, after all, and I doubt your father would've wanted the hard work he put into making the map wasted."

* * *

Despite the great gift his Godfather had bequeathed him, the name of which was revealed to him as the _Marauder's Map_ , Harry still awoke with the feeling that so-often plagued him at this time of year.

For as long as he could _understand_ , he could not seem to escape the feeling that there was still a part of him that had not fully healed from it. If the event was a wound, the bleeding had still yet to stop. However, he did not wish for Tonks to worry; in fact, making Tonks' worry was safely the last thing he wished to happen.

So it was with his notebook underneath his arm that he greeted Tonks in the mid-afternoon, Tonks having said that she had errands to run in the morning. He had hoped to place his feelings into something that was, at the very least, productive. Tonks, however, had a rather different idea. And he should've known that one look at her would dissolve any other feeling from him, and replace it with the excitement he felt being around her.

"Hey Harry," said Tonks. He didn't know how she did it, but he even _then_ , when he heard her say his name he lit up. "So, I have a surprise for you today."

"Great," said Harry, a little taken aback. "What is it?"

Tonks laughed. "Telling you would defeat the purpose of the surprise now, wouldn't it?" she asked, rhetorically. Tonks looped her arm through Harry's and set the pair of them walking.

"I never liked surprises."

"How come?" asked Tonks, turning her whole body as they walked.

A surprise to Harry only conjured memories of being given more things to do around the house on his birthday, as a 'birthday surprise'.

"Bad experience."

"Well that's all going to change today," said Tonks, with an air of total confidence. Her hair was violet today, though it seemed to bounce around the shades at an alarming rate, as though there was simply too much energy within Tonks to stick to one colour for very long. "You're going to have the best surprise of your life. It's _me_ , after all."

Harry smiled at her. Tonks led them through the grounds of Hogwarts, beyond the Great Lake, before stopping just before the dock where the Durmstrang ship was moored.

"Is the surprise _that_?" asked Harry, pointing to the enormous galley behind them. "Because I think that ship has already sailed."

" _Ha ha_ ," said Tonks, but she was fighting a small smile. "No it's not."

"So why are we here?"

"We've stopped here for two reasons: one, no-one else can see us-"

"Is the surprise that you're going to murder me?" asked Harry. "Because that's not what I'd call a 'good' surprise."

"If you keep making ship puns, then that's only going to get _more_ likely," said Tonks, with a wink. "And secondly, because the apparition boundary ends about a hundred yards away."

"Tonks, are you teaching me how to apparate?" asked Harry, quite seriously, quite excited at the thought.

"No, I'm an auror, and that's _illegal_ ," said Tonks mock-seriously, her brown eyes big, bright and guileless. Harry thought she looked mesmerising, though that seemed to be how he felt about her all the time. "I'm _jail-breaking_ you from Hogwarts!"

Harry was confused, that much was evident on his face. "Isn't _that_ a crime?"

"Only if _you_ get caught," said Tonks. "And how would that happen anyway? Who'd catch you? An _Auror_?"

Harry laughed, quite excited at the thought of going elsewhere for a few hours. "So, where is it that we're going?"

"That's an excellent question!"

"And what is it's answer?"

"All things in good time, Harry," leading them to the end of the apparition boundary. "Have you apparated before?"

Harry nodded. "Once, with Dumbledore," he said, grimacing at the thought. "It wasn't fun."

Harry had been 11 at the time, as Dumbledore had responded to the question ' _can magic make you disappear?'_ by taking them to Diagon Alley in the blink of an eye.

"Well if you didn't enjoy it with Dumbledore, you're gonna _hate_ doing it with me," Tonks said, smiling. "I'm afraid the natural smoothness I usually possess doesn't quite carry over to apparition."

Tonks took his hand in hers, shocking Harry a little. She had small hands, he noticed.

"You nervous?" she asked. "Because I'd like to say you shouldn't be, but the last time I side-along'ed someone they lost both of their thumbs, so…"

And at once, they were moved from the wilds of Scotland to a place Harry had never been before.

"Well, that actually went better than I had hoped it would," said Tonks, her eyes bright and green. Harry would have to agree; he was not dry-heaving on the ground, as he had been with Dumbledore.

"So, where are we?" asked Harry.

"We're in London. Or more specifically, we're in Wandsworth," said Tonks, familiarity pouring from her voice.

"And why is it that you decided to take us to the other end of the country?"

"Have you never heard of dramatic suspense?" asked Tonks, rhetorically. "Fine - there's a wizarding centre hidden in Wandsworth - kind of obvious, given the name."

"And I assume the surprise is there?"

"With a brain like yours, you should've been in Ravenclaw," said Tonks, rolling her eyes as she lead him through the streets, her hand still in Harry's. "Yes Harry, your surprise is there."

"At the sorting I was nearly put in Ravenclaw, by the way," commented Harry.

"What made the hat change its…mind?" asked Tonks. "Or whatever it is that a hat using to think."

Harry noted that it was clear that she was walking through her home; every step was familiar, as if she was tracing a path she'd taken a thousand times before.

"I knew that my parents were in Gryffindor. And, at the time, all I wanted was to be like them, so I almost begged the hat to put me there," said Harry.

Tonks looked at him, her eyes soft. "That's quite a brave thing to do, anyway. To try and convince something a _million_ _years old_ to change its mind," she said. "I don't really know why the hat made me a 'Puff."

"Well, you've been very kind to me," said Harry earnestly. "And I imagine you worked really hard to get into the aurors."

Tonks smiled, her face brightening. "Thanks, Harry," she said. "So, one of my mates owns the cafe around the corner from here; would you mind if we popped in for a bit?"

Harry nodded, and Tonks directed the pair of them off of the high street they'd been walking down, and onto a residential side street. The houses were large, but not overtly so. It seemed very normal, which lead Harry to question why on earth they were there in the first place.

Tonks stopped in front of one such house; a two-floor home, with a moderate front garden that was cleaved in half by the gravel path to the door;. two holly trees sat on either side of the path.

"Tonks, this isn't a cafe," noted Harry, his voice filled with confusion. "This is a house."

" _Trust me_ , Harry," said Tonks.

The two of them walked to the large, wooden door, and the gravel of the path occasionally getting into the hole of Harry's shoe, which irritated him.

Rather oddly, beside the door of the house there was a key-pad, alike those found on a block of flats. Tonks approached the pad, and began typing.

 _6-2-4-4-2_

Wizards were far too predictable, thought Harry.

Immediately, the door of the house swung open, and the sight which greeted Harry filled him with awe.

A world that Harry could scarcely imagine met his eyes. The road was paved with grey marble, every inch of every block clear and immaculately spotless. The houses seemed to be plucked out of the imaginings of a child's fairy story, each building more beautiful than the last. Most of the homes were alike to townhouses, making the streets appear exactly as he'd imagined the streets of Minas Tirith in the modern day, though more alive and colourful. Some houses even had features gilded with silver or gold. The windows were warm and inviting, bright light cascading out of them and into the street. It was perfection, and a beautiful perfection that would only be made possible by magic, and a wondrous, vibrant and spellbinding magic at that.

"I'm glad that I chose to take you through the entrance-way, rather than apparate straight in," said Tonks, a bright grin on her face as she watched Harry openly gape at the world that she had then introduced him to. "This is Wandsworthy."

"What is it?" Harry asked, stunned.

"It's one of the few residential areas in all of wizarding Britain. And, the best," said Tonks. "But, more importantly, this is home to the best cup of coffee in the whole world."

"Do you live here?"

"Oh _Merlin_ no. Me? On a _Junior Auror_ ' _s_ wage? _Here?_ " said Tonks, incredulously. "Harry, you had to buy me a butterbeer the last time we went were in Hogsmeade, and you expect me to live _here?_ No, I live in muggle Wandsworth, about a mile away. Houses are cheaper there."

Tonks directed them to another street, though it appeared much like the last; more beautiful than he could even comprehend. However, unlike before, on the end of the street there sat a building unlike any of those that proceeded it. Unlike the other unblemished buildings that seemed to radiate a certain magical perfection, this building instead radiate _warmth,_ and welcoming. It seemed more human, more _real_ , yet still it held a certain wonder to it, with a white front and a large window open to the street. Above the window in delicate calligraphy, its sign read _Jonesin' for a cuppa._

"No, we're here because I wanted you to see something in the wizarding world that isn't just Hogwarts, and this seemed to be the perfect place to start," continued Tonks.

"I've seen other places, too," said Harry.

"Diagon Alley doesn't count," Tonks told him. Harry did not respond. "I've said that I'm going to make you open your eyes and see the world, and _clearly_ acting like a proper teenager isn't exactly your forte, so we're here."

Harry wasn't complaining at all. He'd happily spend all of his time, in beautiful places with the most beautiful person he'd ever known. Harry followed Tonks into the cafe, as she immediately ran to the counter and greeted the woman standing behind it.

"Hey 'Tia!" she said, hugging her over the glass of the counter. "Harry, this is Hestia, but I call her 'Tia; she owns this cafe. 'Tia, this is Harry, the bloke that I mentioned; the one from work?"

Harry did not meet Hestia's eyes, instead looking at her forehead - a trick he'd learnt to avoid eye contact, whilst not appearing rude. She was young, especially to be owning a cafe by herself, and especially one in a place so affluent. Hestia had large, hazel eyes with clear, caramel skin and a round, kind face framed by light brown hair that stopped just before her shoulders.

"Hi Harry," she greeted, before turning to Tonks. "Isn't he a little _young_ for you, Tonks?"

Tonks turned to Harry for a moment, then down to where their hands were still intertwined. "I could do worse," she mused, tilting a head to the side. Harry inwardly enjoyed the thought. "'Tia, he's a _fourth_ year. Get your head out of the gutter."

"Whatever, Tonks," she said, shaking her head. "So what would you like?"

"I'll have the usual, 'Tia," said Tonks.

"And I assume that'll be paid the usual way?" asked Hestia, smiling ruefully.

"By my undying friendship? Of course!" said Tonks, making her friend roll her eyes.

"And what would you like Harry?" asked Hestia. "Don't worry about money. If I'm not charging Tonks, I may as well not charge you either."

Harry's chest pounded,suddenly faced with interacting in public with a stranger. "I-I will h-have the same as Tonks, p-please," he said, annoyed at the shake of his voice. He felt Tonks' thumb rub against his palm, which helped calm him.

"Alright," said Hestia, nodding at the pair of them. "If you two would like to get a table, and I'll bring them over to you when they're ready."

Tonks lead them to a table at the corner of the cafe, which Harry was grateful for. The seat was almost unnaturally cosy and comfortable. The cafe was busy, and Harry could feel the telltale ache in his chest, and the prickling of his skin, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable.

To fight the anxiety forming, he resolved to focus on Tonks, who sat across from him. He focused on the subtle way that her hair seemed to cascade, the way it was constantly changing its shade. The way that her skin seemed to glow as though her she herself was made of magic. On how beautiful her eyes were, and how they always seemed to dance.

"Harry, do you have any idea what you just ordered?" asked Tonks, amusement colouring her tone. She had let his hand go as she sat down, and in that moment he wished for the anchoring feeling to return.

Harry shook his head, preferring not to speak.

"Well, you're going to enjoy it anyway. _Probably_ more than you want to," said Tonks. Tonks met his eyes then, and noticed the discomfort that they carried. "Are you okay?"

Harry only wished to be honest with Tonks, and so he shook his head.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Tonks. Then, a look of realisation fell across her face, her hair becoming brown and wavy. "Is it because we're out like this? With all the other people?" Harry nodded, thankful that she understood. Tonks took his hand, which rested on the table. "Do you want to leave? Because 'Tia will understand. It's not like she's losing trade either way."

As her hand once more became intertwined with his, subduing the rising worry that had formed in the pit of his stomach. He was still on edge, of that there could be no question, but the worry that had once filled him was no longer quite so acute.

"Thank you," said Harry, gratefully. "We can s-stay."

Tonks nodded. Harry was glad she was so understanding. "Cool," she said. "I'm glad, 'cause I love this place. 'Tia was two years above me in Hufflepuff, and she opened this place as soon as she graduated. Her Dad's this American businessmen; he owns the Washington Wizards, you know the big Quidditch team over there?" Harry had a blank look on his face; the sum of his Quidditch knowledge was that the Cannons were abysmal, Gryffindor were good but only because of Neville, and that he supported Puddlemere who were by all accounts quite good. "Her younger sister is Gwenog Jones, that brilliant beater on the Harpies, and her youngest sister is in your year - do you know Megan?"

Harry nodded. "S-She's in my Defence class."

Harry heard footsteps accompanied by the rattling of crockery, and he looked up and saw Hestia carrying over their drinks.

"So, that's two Irish coffees for you two," she said, placing the tray at their table.

"'Tia, what are their names?" asked Tonks.

"Tonks _please._ "

"What are their names, 'Tia?"

Hestia mumbled something unintelligible which made Tonks positively gleeful.

"What was that?" asked Tonks, cupping her ear.

"They're _Aidan Lynchs_ ," said Hestia, rolling her eyes, looking incredibly put upon.

"And why are they called that?" Asked Tonks, looking amused. Hestia, however, looked mortified.

"Please don't make me say it out loud again," whispered Hestia, pleading. "You always make me say it."

"Why are they called that?" repeated Tonks, looking positively gleeful.

" _Because he's a fiery hotty, and so are these_ ," said Hestia, before scampering away to serve another customer.

Harry looked at Tonks, confusion clear on his face. "She was at the World Cup with me, and we got hammered one night," she clarified. "Aidan Lynch is the Irish captain, and Hestia had queued up for about an hour for his autograph.

"Anyway, afterward, we went to this pub and get just… _sloshed_. Leathered. You name it, we were it. Then, to a horde of Irish fans, she proclaims they should come to her cafe and buy an Irish Coffee 'cause _'he's a firey hotty, and so are they'_."

Harry smiled at Tonks, though he was still slightly confused. "I don't understand, though. Why are these," he said, pointing to their drinks. "'firey hotty's?"

"Have a sip and find out."

Harry did so. And, for a brief moment, he had a moment of absolute clarity. As from what entered a simple glass of coffee, exited a plume of _fire_.

"Irish Coffee has coffee, sugar _and firewhisky_ ," explained Tonks, laughing a little at his stunned expression.

"It has firewhisky?"

"I wouldn't worry about that too much Harry. It's not _that_ strong, and there's not that much in one glass," said Tonks, taking a drink from her glass, before breathing out controlled _rings_ of fire. "Besides, most people your age are doing something similar."

"Were you?" asked Harry.

"Not really," she admitted. "For most of my time at Hogwarts, I fancied this bloke that was totally prim and proper. He wouldn't drink, or smoke, and he did all of his homework on time and he was a right little toady. I avoided most of that to impress him. I was still a right pain in the arse, though."

Harry was surprised at the revelation; the girl that insisted he make the most of his life, didn't do the same for hers.

"Did it impress him?" Harry asked.

"Not really," said Tonks, laughing a little. "He dated this girl that was pretty wild anyway and ended up being a right dick, so I'm pretty happy I dodged that curse."

"How's everything going with that girl - Granger, is it? - by the way?" Asked Tonks. "Does she hate your guts?"

"I don't…think so?" He questioned, more than answered. "I've apologised and we've talked, and I _think_ we're okay."

"She's probably going to resent you for a while, but it'll end up fine," explained Tonks. "That Granger is an important person to be friends with, you know. When she ends up ruling the world, you're probably gonna want to be on her good side."

Harry nodded. He had another drink, expecting the burning this time. He found he rather liked the taste.

"Do you have a boyfriend now?" asked Harry, feeling rather daring.

"Oh Merlin, no." responded Tonks, laughing a little. "I don't have the free time to meet anyone really, with the Aurors and family. There's just some things you can't _not_ do."

Harry was thrilled that he was one of those things.

"Plus, most of the blokes in the Aurors are dicks," continued Tonks. "Think the world's theirs because they wear a certain uniform. Like there's this James who's desk is next to mine - he's some distant relation to the Greengrass family, so he's a proper pureblood and all that. Anyway, whenever I happen to walk past him," said Tonks, then leaning and whispering. "He'll just grab my arse."

"What?" Harry asked, absolutely furious. "Have you told your superior?"

"What, Dawlish? No chance. He'd probably demote me," said Tonks, laughing. "No, I just turned him into a pig, and I've told all the girls in our department that he's a prick so he'll probably end up single forever. And I punched him in the face. Hard. He hasn't done anything since."

"Still, people like that shouldn't work for our _legal_ system," said Harry, still incensed. "How ridiculous is our society that people like that can just get away with doing stuff like that. And people like Malfoy can ridicule and attack people, or tell his lackeys to, and he won't face any punishment 'cause his Dad pays for half the school."

"Whoa, it's not _that_ bad, Harry," said Tonks, shocked at his outburst. "And people like Malfoy get their comeuppance by the fact that they're never gonna be happy because all they do is make other people miserable. And because no girl worth shagging will ever shag 'em."

"And another thing; I think it's stupid that half of the Wizengamot is elected by the Minister," said Harry, his ire not quenched, but his thirst was as he kept drinking his Irish Coffee. "Because how will that cause anything _other_ than corruption, and self-serving? Fudge is selling our country's freedom off to the highest bidder, and when the highest bidder is _Lucius fucking Malfoy_ , all that happens is that our society becomes corrupted."

"I didn't know you felt so strongly about this sort of thing," said Tonks, an odd tone in her voice.

"But don't you feel the same way, Tonks? Don't you think it's embarrassing that our country allowed Death Eaters into the World Cup because our leaders would rather spend their time thinking up new ways to monopolise power and reduce the likelihood of us ever becoming equal to the muggles in terms of technology than support our dying legal system?"

"Harry be quiet!" Tonks shushed, her her turning crimson. Then, she leaned in, whispering. "Don't speak like that here! The people around us _are_ the highest bidder! This is not the place!"

Harry sat back in his chair, his cheeks pink and his ire quenched fully after Tonks' chastising.

"So, that's probably enough alcohol for you. Forever," said Tonks, noting his empty glass. "Now, do you want to go and get your actual present?" Then, she leaned in once more. " _Before they chase us out of here with pitchforks._ "

Harry nodded. Tonks took his hand, practically dragging him out of his seat, remembering to wave goodbye to a confused Hestia. As soon as they were out of the building, she apparated the pair of them, rather hurriedly, to another, altogether unfamiliar, place.

Then, she did something entirely unexpected, given his outburst. She hugged him, fiercely, almost folding him in two with the force of it. He returned it without question.

"I don't understand?"

"Oh _Harry_ ," said Tonks, by way of explanation. "It's for what you _said._ "

"But I don't understand, I didn't think you agreed?"

"I don't agree with you saying it in public, in _Wandsworthy_ of all places. I actually want you to continue being _alive_ ," explained Tonks, still clinging to him. "I'm so happy you said that. It was so _incredibly_ kind."

"I've had to deal with a lot of shit from the people that you described as the ' _highest bidder'_ ," continued Tonks. "Most of those people hate me. Hate my family. Hate my mum, especially, for being a ' _race traitor_ '. I'm related to most of them through her, and I'd get harassed constantly at school for it. That's the _real_ reason I wanted to be an auror, Harry. So I could stop as much of that as I could."

Harry hugged her back, holding her tightly. She had been a support for him, as he struggled in public, so he would be that for her, then.

"Anyway," said Tonks, after a time, her holding onto him still. "Me crying all over you wasn't the surprise."

"It was a little bit of a surprise, to be fair," said Harry.

"Nonetheless," began Tonks, laughing a little. "You know those _errands_ I ran today?" Harry nodded. "Well, these are the fruits of my labour."

Tonks took his hand again, dragging him through from the hallway she had apparated in to, and into another room. Dimly, Harry realised that they were in Tonks' flat, the firewhisky making him slow.

This new room was still quite small, but in it was housed a large TV and what he recognised was a VCR, as well as small sofa, just big enough for two people. At the Dursley's, Vernon would use one of a similar size purely for himself.

"How is that possible?" asked Harry, dumbly. "I thought magic broke electronic systems?"

"Not this one," said Tonks, grinning. "It's straight from Japan. This bloke called Kobashi managed to make one that has a magic-resistant shield around it - nothing short of the killing curse is going to break this bad boy - that reminds me actually; we should watch Bad Boys."

Harry smiled, realising what his surprise was.

"Does this mean what I think it means?" asked Harry.

"Of course!" exclaimed Tonks. "We're watching _Die Hard!_ "

Tonks almost ran to the sofa in her fervor, and Harry followed in footsteps. Tonks, having already put the VHS in the VCR, pressed play on the remote, before taking the blanket that was folded over the side of the sofa and placing it over the pair of them; the sofa forcing the pair of them close enough that the blanket covered both of them comfortably.

"Thank you for today, Tonks," said Harry, gratitude clear in his large, green eyes. "It was great."

"Anytime, Harry," said Tonks, leaning her head on his shoulder.

And then, with a heart full of adoration, he watched the best film of all time, with the best person in his life.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Please review if you have any comments or anything you'd like to see.**

 **Until next time.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello all!**

 **I hope you all enjoy this chapter - I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Feel free to give me your thoughts on it, and what you'd like to see happen next.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

It seemed unnecessarily cruel to Harry that joy was so easily eradicated. It did not matter its size or the vivacity with which you felt it, as it seemed like there was always a tidal wave of misery on the horizon, primed to wash it all away.

Halloween, it appeared, was Harry's tidal wave. It did not matter that the day before had been his one of his favourite days ever, the joy it inspired was simply a sandcastle before the waves. And so, Harry woke feeling numb, and flat.

There were no lessons on Halloween, it being a holiday within the wizarding world, and so Harry awoke at midday, and the additional rest did not energise him, but rather made him feel all the more sluggish. He fell into a cruel purgatory, where he was too numb to cry but too raw to find any peace or understanding, and so he simply lay in his bed for a time, too distraught for little else.

He pondered in that time what it was that his parents would be doing; he knew not if he believed in heaven or hell, but simply for his own sanity he believed that there was _more_. He wondered if they despaired their separation quite as much as he did, or if they had found peace in the great beyond. He wondered if there was anything they wished to say, or to tell him, or to do; he hoped they did not, for he could think of nothing worse than an eternity of knowing that you had more to do, and yet did not do it. He wondered if his father had ever laid on the very bed he was laying on, and felt the same as he did then.

Harry wondered if his parents were angry at him then, for continuing to mourn as he was doing; he doubted they enjoyed seeing their son so overwrought with the sorrow he then felt, but he felt he could do little else. Their death was the one companion he _had_ had for as long as he could remember, and to shake it felt impossible. Death's attachment to him was simply too large, and too close to the bone - to shear it off would be to shear off half of him. It felt like the only way he could come to terms with it would be to forget them entirely.

However, his thoughts were prevented from going any further, as they interrupted by a knock at the door of the dormitory.

"Hello Harry," said Dumbledore, having let himself in. "The weather outside is quite nice today, if you were only to open your curtains."

Harry didn't respond, instead replying by turning into his pillow, burying his face into the soft cushion.

"I was worried that I'd find you here," said Dumbledore. "I seem to recall finding you in a fairly similar position for the past few years now. I had hoped you had come to terms with it all by now."

"Come to _terms_?" mumbled Harry, into his pillow.

"I fear that may be the only way to put it," explained the Headmaster, his voice quite beleaguered. "You cannot live your life in constant mourning, Harry. To live your life without truly knowing one's parents _is_ a terrible fate, but what is worse is to live a life _without_ living. They would not want you to live in such a way."

"Am I not allowed _one_ _day_ to honour them? Just _one day_ to remember what it was they did for me?" asked Harry, his face turned from the pillow, his green eyes wide and sharp.

" _Of course_ , Harry, of course you are," rectified Dumbledore, a placating hand outstretched. "The problem is not the duration, Harry, but the _severity_."

"What do you mean?"

"I have known you for more than four years, and for each of the Halloweens that I have known you, I would know that if I were to go and look, I would find you here," said the Headmaster. "This ritualistic mourning cannot be healthy for you, Harry. I do not think you can find happiness if the only tradition you have made with your parents is to linger around your bedroom."

Harry drew breath, Dumbledore's words cutting deeply.

"And what about yourself, Professor?" asked Harry, his eyes intense. "Do you yourself not spend much of your time lingering, alone? Have _you_ ever truly gotten beyond your grief?"

"Harry, my grief is not what we are discussing," said Dumbledore, calmly. "What we are discussing is that, at a certain point, you may need to move beyond this sorrow that you feel."

"You may say this, Professor, and yet do you still do not visit Nuremberg, or Munich?" asked Harry, his ire rising. "And the wand that you carry is not your original, but rather Gellert's, is it not?"

"You are correct on both counts, Harry," admitted Dumbledore, a strange tone to his voice. "Harry, if I may explain what it is I mean."

"Fine."

"As a younger man, I confess I loved, and loved deeply. If I may be bold, I loved just as deeply as you do your parents. However, though my love was pure, the one which I loved was not. I do not deny that I loved Grindelwald; I loved Gellert fiercely, and purely, and without a single speck of doubt in my heart. Gellert, however, saw me only as a prize piece of his arsenal; a toy in his toy box. And for longer than I am proud to admit, I loved him _in spite_ of this. I knew that my love for him would only bring chaos, and destruction, and pain and yet I loved him nonetheless.

"Harry, in my life I have tried and failed at love. I may be respected, and I may have some talent with - as you've said - a borrowed wand. But that's all I will ever be. The heart I was born with was one that mustn't be trusted, unlike yours. You possess a heart that is pure, and kind, and generous with its love, and I could see that from the very moment I first met you in a suburb, in Surrey some four and half _years_ ago. I can _see_ that your heart, and your love, will bring about goodness _and_ greatness in our world, if only you let it.

"Harry, I must carry my grief with me as a reminder of what it brings. Your grief, however, is only holding you back from the good you may bring. Your sadness holds you back, and prevents you from being the person that you _can_ be. You must come to terms with their lives, and unfortunately their deaths, if you are to become any more than a shadow of what they were. So, by all means, learn of them; learn their lives, and learn of the brilliant people they were, and most of all you _must_ love them. But do not attach yourself _so_ closely to their deaths. _You_ are more than just an orphan."

The Headmaster nodded to Harry, leaving the room with only his words and Harry to deal with them. At first, the rage buzzing in his ears prevented a great deal of any rational thinking. Who was _Albus Dumbledore_ to demand that of him? How dare someone place a limit on his pain?

The very thought of simply _moving on_ was almost ridiculous. It would be a blatant disservice to his parents, to their lives, and to their legacy. They suffered, and so should he. How dare he, on today of all days, live his life as though nothing was wrong?

Nonetheless, after their conversation, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and to have a shower as the need to simply be something other than unclean became more pressing. Most Halloweens, he'd have done no such thing, simply hiding under the covers until the day passed.

However, as he was brushing his teeth, his glasses firmly on his face, he looked into the mirror, his own green eyes shocking him as they stared back into him. And that was by far the oddest part of it all; for _every_ occasion, whenever he would look into the mirror, into those eyes, they were not _his_. They were Lily Potter's. They were his _Mum's_.

And yet, on that day, they were his.

Harry spent a long time in the shower on that day; taking extreme care to wash away all the grime that sleep had left on him. It felt as though he were washing away the sweat and the grime of all of those four Halloweens before; the ones where he didn't find the strength to move beyond his bed.

And when he opened the door to his bedroom, he found Neville was there to greet him, though Neville himself was unaware of that, his back faced away from Harry. Neville turned at the noise of the door opening, his eyes widening with surprise.

"Hi Harry," said Neville, recovering his calm quickly. If there was one thing Neville had become, it was adaptable; his mouth was slightly upturned, in a strange version of how he would regularly smile. It appeared _odd_ to Harry. "Just getting my Quidditch set; me and the lads are gonna play a game on the field - do you want to join?"

Harry shook his head, quickly disappearing behind the curtains of his bed to dress in something other than a towel. "Maybe another time," he said quietly.

Neville smiled. "Whenever you're ready," said Neville. "Oh, and Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for not mentioning my…visits to anyone," said Neville, quite calmly; Harry didn't know how he did it. If the situations were reversed, he'd have been terrified. Perhaps Neville was simply _good_ at handling duress. "You didn't have to do that, but you did."

"Who would I tell?" asked Harry, somewhat rhetorically.

"Still Harry, it's cool of you to do that," answered Neville. "It's not exactly _easy_ to talk to anyone about, and I don't want the others to worry about me. This time of year is not the best, I know that you of all people get that, but seeing my Dad helps."

Harry nodded, preferring not to speak.

"And again, thank you for looking out for me with the Goblet," continued Neville. "I think it'll be nice having a quiet year for once."

"They're underrated."

"I wouldn't know," replied Neville, smiling a touch more _humanely_ this time. "And I'm sorry for not telling you about Sirius before."

"I'd rather have him safe, as he his now, than you having told me before and put him further at risk," said Harry, though it wasn't true. Call him selfish, but he'd take _any_ connection to his parents; it didn't matter about anything else.

"Still Harry, you deserved to know," said Neville. Then, he chuckled to himself. "I owe you quite a bit, don't I?"

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," said Harry, waving it away with his hand. "Just forget about it."

Neville shook his head. "No, I definitely owe you a favour," he said. "Just say the word, mate."

Harry nodded to him, and Neville, having apparently found his Quidditch set, walked out of the door.

"Oh, and Harry?" Neville said, popping his head back in the room. "The offer is always open, by the way. You're always welcome to join us to play Quidditch. I mean that."

Harry nodded once more, smiling slightly. He knew he would never say yes, but he appreciated the sentiment. He lay back down on his bed then, allowing the softness of the bed to sooth him, to cushion his spine. But it didn't.

The bed was not the refuge it had once been. It was just a bed. And perhaps, on one day some years ago his Dad may have laid on that very bed just as he was then doing, but that did not make it any more, or any less, of anything. It was just an object: a place in the world. And it was one he did not need.

At once, he drew his wand, and did not speak any words. He did not say an incantation, or picture the execution of a spell that he had ever performed before. Instead, he pointed his wand, and allowed his mind to empty but for the feeling he then felt. Nothing more, and nothing less.

And from his wand, there came a white light. It seemed to bathe the room in its incandescence, brightening the dormitory. And when it was gone, where the bed had once stood, there now stood nothing.

Harry left the room at once, an urgency in his step; the conversation with Dumbledore had ended prematurely. He did not think as to where he was going, his gut leading him on, and once more it felt as though the castle had forged a path only for him. Before long, he was within the Transfiguration corridor, outside of one of the offices.

Harry felt a compulsion, a strange awareness, that this was to be the place that he would find Dumbledore. He approached the door, intending upon knocking, but found he was saved the effort as the door opened from the inside, and revealed the back of the Headmaster.

The room inside was more of a shell than an office; it had picture frames, though no pictures and a desk, but without any paperwork on it. No personal touches, no _life_.

"I never did feel at home here," mused Dumbledore, his back still turned to Harry. "Perhaps it was my pride, but I knew that I simply wouldn't be the Transfiguration Professor for an egregious amount of time. It was simply the first point in my journey, but not the only point. Even then, I knew that much."

"You left before I could respond," said Harry. Dumbledore did not turn. "I would've told you how angry I was that you could be so callous about my parents, and their memories, to reduce them to something I could _get over_. That their death was something that should be forgotten and that I am _nothing_. Nothing. Nothing if not for their sacrifice. But most mostly I would've said that I needed to hear what you were saying. So thank you."

"So why is it that you're here _now_?" asked Dumbledore, now inspecting a chalkboard covered in dust.

"You said that I needed to stop mourning in the way that I had been doing. That it was unhealthy," said Harry, approaching Dumbledore so that they were standing side by side. "I want to do that."

"What do you suggest?" asked the Headmaster.

"I want to visit my parents."

"Harry, I'm not sure that is a good idea," said Dumbledore, rubbing the bridge of his nose, just where it had once been broken. "I am not sure that seeing their graves would _help_. Would that not just remind you of their fate?"

"I want to pay my respects," said Harry. "For so long, I've spent this time ruing in the world for what it did to them, and to me. I hated their death. By seeing them, I want to love their life, and to commemorate them."

"How will seeing their grave do that?"

"Because I want to see what they _are_ ," said Harry. "They may be… _gone._ But I can't run from that, or hide from that anymore. I want to see them, as they are, and I don't think I can really see how they were otherwise. I can't move beyond it if I continue to hide from it."

Dumbledore nodded then, finally turning to face Harry. "Then you will visit them."

"Thank you," said Harry, gratitude pouring from his voice.

"And when is it that you want to do this?"

"Today."

Dumbledore's blue eyes flickered, briefly gazing down onto the ground. "I'm sorry Harry, but I can't take you today," he said, apologetic. "And neither can any of the other staff; the opening ceremony is tonight."

"That's okay," said Harry, an odd smile on his face. "I know someone that can, if you'd let me?"

"I trust you Harry," said Dumbledore, smiling a small smile, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. "Do what you believe to be right."

"Thank you Profes-" Harry said before interrupting himself, a strangely-bright smile on his face, given the somber feeling that had once dwelled in his chest. "Thank you _Albus._ "

The headmaster offered an equally bright smile in return. "Make sure that you are happy, Harry. That is the only thing that matters now," said Dumbledore.

"I will. I promise," said Harry. "And Professor?"

"Yes Harry?"

"When we spoke earlier, you said that you shouldn't trust your heart to care for someone unselfishly, because only bad things could come from it," said Harry, one foot out of the office. "I don't think that's true. You've shown me nothing but care, and by your care, you introduced me to the greatest wonder of my life. It was _you_ that allowed me to find joy in the world. I don't think there is anything quite as unselfish as that."

Harry left the office then to find Tonks, leaving a pleased Dumbledore alone in his office.

* * *

By the time that Harry and Tonks had disapparated to Godric's Hollow, darkness had already fallen on the small wizarding village. Harry had never been there before; or at least, he had not been there at a time that he could remember. Yet still, the village held a passing familiarity to him; it was as though the village itself wanted him there; it _wanted_ him.

"Harry, are you sure you'd like me to be here?" Asked Tonks, trailing ever so slightly behind him. Tonks was still in her auror robes; Harry having asked that she bring him here in such haste that she had not been able to change. "Couldn't you have gotten someone you trusted more?"

Harry thought for a moment. _Would_ he prefer someone else with him, at such a moment?

"Tonks, there's no-one else I'd rather have with me here," he said. "There's no-one I trust more than you."

Tonks met his step, and the pair walked side-by-side through the street. It was a quaint village, even when compared to a place like Hogsmeade. Cottages lined the street, with thatched roofs and smoking chimneys, though with large spaces between them, as each house had a large garden attached. There were few other buildings in the village; only a corner shop, one or two pubs, and a church.

"I've never thought my parents would live in a place like this," said Harry, his eyes alight with wonder. "It's beautiful."

"Potters have lived in Godric's Hollow for a few hundred years," supplied Tonks, her voice quiet.

"I wonder if I'll end up in a place like this," pondered Harry. "The Potter Cottage belongs to me, and I'm allowed to live in it when I turn sixteen. I was even given reparations by the Ministry so I could fix the fire damage on the house, I just don't know if I'd want to."

"I could see you here, Harry," said Tonks, a kind smile on her face. "Quiet, beautiful, calm. It'd suit you perfectly."

Harry smiled, his face a little red. "Why don't we go and see my cottage."

They walked together, through the village, Harry following his heart as it told him where to go. The sorrow that had so often plagued him this time of year was absent. Absent, and in its place there was an odd sense of hope. Hope of what, he had no idea.

"I wonder where my parents would be now," said Harry, his voice holding an oddly _innocent_ curiosity. "I wonder if they would be home, eating together and talking about how their work day was. Or if they would be taking care of one of my siblings. Or if my Dad would be reading the paper, and my Mum would be reading a journal of charms essays, and they would be just content with one another."

Tonks drew breath unevenly next to him. He could feel her lean slightly against him as they walked. It was nice, thought Harry, to have her presence next to him.

"I think- I think they would be happy, Harry," said Tonks, her voice again quiet. "They'd be happy that they had a son like you."

Harry nodded to himself, quite shakily.

It didn't take the pair very long at all before they were standing before a house with a sign bearing the name _Potter's_ _Cottage_.

It was not spectacular. Or magnificent, or opulent. The second floor had been set alight and subsequently had been destroyed, leaving only the ground floor. It did not hold the grandiosity of the houses in Wandworthy; it was not perfect, obviously. The wall that surrounded the garden was slightly uneven in places, with rocks having been worn away. But none of that mattered, as to Harry, it was _home_.

"Do you want to go in?" asked Tonks, looking at Harry as he gazed in _awe_.

Harry nodded, and the pair of them walked through the open gate and the cobbled-stone path. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open.

"I'll wait outside, Harry," said Tonks. "This is your family home. It's not my place."

Harry smiled at her, and walked in.

In the areas not destroyed by the fire, the house was, despite the years of neglect, spotless. No dust, or damage, or any sign that it wasn't cared for. The doorway opened onto a corridor; the walls lined with pictures, some magical, others not. Pictures of his parents still in their Hogwarts uniform's, pictures of the two of them with Grandparents he never knew, and pictures at their wedding with friends he would never meet.

The kitchen was empty, nothing in the cupboards or in the fridge, and the stove was spotless. Harry wondered who had been back to the house to clean it out. He wondered if they had charms to remove any food that was inedible. However, on the island that centered the room was a newspaper; it wasn't the Prophet, but rather a local, muggle newspaper. The date on it was the _31st October 1981_.

The living room still had a small pile of chopped wood stocked next to the fireplace that stood at the end of the living room. There was enough seating for five people in the room; a sofa for two, and three reading chairs. In the corner, there was a record player, though the records were not there; he himself possessed the only ones that still played.

For a moment, Harry's could picture his parents sat on that sofa, happy in each-other's company. He wondered if it was a memory, or if it was just a wishful thought.

He wished that he could see the second floor; he wanted to see what _could_ have been his room. His sanctuary. _His_ space. Harry despised the Death Eaters all the more for taking away even the _dream_ of what could have been his life. He wished he could've seen his bedroom, and his parents rooms. Even for a moment, he wanted to see the life his parents _could_ have had.

The sorrow that plagued him returned, and the cottage proved to be too much to bear, and so he left quickly. Tonks, as she promised, was waiting outside for him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her hand comforting on his arm.

"Not really," said Harry, shaking his head. "They were - They were _barely_ older than us, Tonks. They had their whole lives to go, and they never had a chance to live. My Mum and Dad deserved _so much more_."

Tonks pulled him close to her, wrapping her arms around him. Harry held her close, holding on to her for dear life.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm just _so_ sorry."

"Did you know that when the Death Eaters came, it was for me? They weren't even the targets. _I was_. They died, and they did it to protect me," said Harry, his voice weak. "How _awful_ is it that two people _barely_ older than me were the ones _protecting_ someone? They _deserved_ protection."

"They did, Harry," said Tonks.

"You know, a lot of the time I wish that it would've been the other way around," said Harry. "They were _brilliant_ , and I'm just _me_. They were the sort of people that made the world a better place. You know I-I sometimes wish they'd just let them take me."

"They loved you, Harry," said Tonks. "And they chose to sacrifice themselves for you. And I'm glad you're here. You make _my_ world a better place."

"Why don't you go and see them, Harry?" asked Tonks into his chest, Harry still clinging to her. Harry nodded against her hair.

Tonks let go of him, and Harry reluctantly did the same. Tonks took his hand in hers, and led him into the village square - where his parent's grave was.

"Tonks, could you stay with me?" asked Harry, his voice soft. "I don't think I'm going to be able to see them alone."

"Of course, Harry," said Tonks.

The graveyard was not a comfortable place to be, and it seemed to scream at Harry to leave; that it was not a place where he belonged. There were no great monoliths, no great tributes to anyone in particular. Some of the gravestones were opulent and fanciful, but most seemed to barely stand out from the grass they fell into.

And, in the centre of the graveyard, was the Potter family section; it bordered the Peverell family, a name that was dimly familiar to Harry, though he had no idea why. There were names that he _should_ know; Charlus, Hardwin, Abraham, Dorea. He knew none of them. Indeed, he recognised Fleamont and Euphemia, his grandparents, though they were only names to him.

However, the two names that he couldn't hope to forget were there; _James and Lily Potter_. They shared a gravestone, and the white marble stone seemed to stick out like a sore thumb against the other commemorations. The headstone was too new, and too youthful, and almost seemed to shine in the moonlight. It read:

 _In loving memory of_

 _James and Lily Potter_

 _Died 31st October 1981_

 _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_.

Harry thought it looked wrong; their headstone did not suit them. Their headstone should have talked of their _lives_ , not just their sacrifice.

"They were more than their deaths," said Harry. He took out his wand, and conjured a wreath of white lilies and red roses, and laid it to rest against the headstone. Then, he conjured a piece of silk ribbon. His magic wrote upon it:

 _Though one may be overpowered, and two can defend themselves, a cord of three strands is not quickly broken._

His hand gripped Tonks' tightly, and she squeezed back. She laid her head on his shoulder, and Harry turned into her, so that her head then lay on his chest, with his other arm around her waist.

"I love you, Mum and Dad," said Harry, and from his eyes tears fell. "I love you, and I miss you."

He wished, in that moment. He wished that they were there to say it back to him. He wished they were the ones holding him, and he wished they had been there to guide him. But for the first time, he could finally make peace with the fact that they weren't. He was Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter. He was their child, and he was a person in his own right. He loved them, and they loved him.

And, as he stood there, amongst his family and with Tonks, he felt himself finally _heal_.

"Tonks, can I stay at your house tonight?" asked Harry, and he felt a lightness that he had never felt before.

"Of course, Harry," said Tonks, against his chest. "The sofa's yours."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was many things, but modest was not one of them. He knew his worth, and he did not make the mistake of valuing himself below that which he was worth. So assured of his one value was he, that he knew that it would not be the efforts of one, but rather _two_ , that would fill his place when it came time.

The first was obvious. Neville Longbottom was the world's poster child. He was everything the world needed to _hope_ for. He was brave, and loyal, and would rush into the fray to save a friend. He would be what the world pointed to; what the world aspired to. When Albus' time came, Neville would be their leader.

However, Albus Dumbledore was not simply a leader. There was knowledge behind his image, and ability to match it. Neville would never be the scholar that the world required; his self was not one that could be given to thoughtful pursuits. The world needed a leader, but it also needed a general. Someone to lead from the back; the quiet confidante, the silent force.

Such a role had been a point of query for Albus Dumbledore for as long as he realised that his successor was something that needed to be thought on. From the very moment that Tom Riddle marked him as his enemy, Albus knew that Neville would be the do-er. What the world needed was a thinker.

And then Harry Potter came along.

The boy had everything that Albus was looking for. His life was not easy; he knew hardship and he knew strife. He knew what a life absent of love felt like, and so he would _always_ work toward a world of love. He was a naturally quiet person; he would not search for another to take the load. He would know that, sometimes, his own shoulders would be the ones to bear the weight of the world.

The most unfortunate fact, however, was that he was not the only person in the world with such foresight. The biggest stars shined the brightest. And, it was the Headmaster's duty to prepare the pair of them for such things. Neville required testing of his ability to think in a crisis; the Philosopher's Stone debacle, and the Basilisk were perfect examples of this. With the help that Albus gave him, both were _controlled_ tests the mettle of Neville. And he passed _perfectly._

Harry, however, required testing of a different kind. Albus needed to test his _mind_. And so, Albus would ask him questions; he would converse with him. To gauge how he thought, and how he saw the world. Also, with the help of a switching spell, and the fact that the Headmaster would be one to mark the lower-year tests, Albus had given Harry end-of-year examinations that were _considerably_ harder than his peers. On this front, Harry passed perfectly.

However, his grief was presenting an issue. Albus needed someone that would not be _bogged_ down in the past; who knew the pain of before, and used it to create a better tomorrow. Harry struggled with that. But, with Albus' _stern_ nudging today, Harry had shown that he was apt. And, to Albus' surprise, he recognised the Elder Wand was not Albus' wand; a pleasant surprise. If Harry, as Albus was planning, was to be the wand's successor, he would need to be able to recognise the wand for what it was.

In short, Dumbledore's plans were moving quite well. This year was always intended upon being the year that his plans finally begin to bare fruit; with the introduction of Sirius to Harry through Neville, Albus had hoped that the two form the relationship that was _vital_ if the world was to prosper.

The worry was that it was that his carefully laid plans were not enough. And, that was where the tournament came in.

Albus, in truth, lived for an event of the kind of the Tournament. The Triwizard Tournament represented everything that their world today lacked. A place for the best to be showcased, and he knew that only _he_ could be the one to do the showcasing. He had been looking for a reason to resurrect the tournament for as long as he'd been Headmaster. The other two schools did not require a great deal of convincing, despite the amount of grandstanding that had occurred. Durmstrang was facing allegations of siding with dark groups forming in Bavaria, and Beauxbatons had never been seen as a school of great educational standard. Both schools needed a distraction, and the tournament was perfect. The guise of magical co-operation was an easy lie, and the idea had come together rather quickly.

Hopefully, with the influx of foreign influences, the pair would begin to truly understand the gravity of their potential, of their possible value. With such influences, many negative, it was probable that they would become embroiled within the tournament; Albus had every faith they would perform _exactly_ to his expectations. He had no fear, of that he was sure.

And so, it now fell to Albus Dumbledore to do what it is he did best. Be a _showman_.

Before he even entered the Great Hall, he dimmed the lights within until little more than darkness could be seen. With a wave of his wand, the doors of the hall swung open, hitting the walls beside them with a _bang._ He heard the students collectively intake breath, and he knew he _had_ them.

He strode through the hall with a purpose. With each step, he lifted his hand, and the lights that were in line with him were brought alight. It would've been easier with a wand, but he was _Albus Dumbledore_.

He knew that if he were to look in McGonagall's direction, she would no doubt be rolling her eyes at him. Despite her doing the _cat animagus_ routine with every first year class for as long as she'd been teaching. Hypocrite.

"Welcome, students, to the Triwizard Tournament!" Albus began, his voice deep and booming. He was using a wandless amplifying charm because he _could_. "Those of you who have _dared_ entered your name have entered yourselves into a tournament that could bring you great glory, or great harm. You walk in the footsteps of the greatest wizards in history; I do hope you are prepared for what is to come."

Albus could see many of the audience shift in their seats. He briefly glanced toward Neville; as expected, the boy also shifted in his seat slightly. He _knew_ he would be a part of this.

"The finest student of each school will be selected, as their school's champion, by _this_ ," said Albus, gesturing to the artefact before him. "The _Goblet of Fire_. You will represent your school, and you will, in turn, earn your school the mantle of the _finest_ wizarding academy in the world."

"Due to the danger, and injury, that the competitors face, safety precautions have been taken," continued Dumbledore. "However, each champion will face a level of danger that they have never experienced before, and trials that will _define_ them as individuals. This tournament will be the making of these three champions."

"Now, without further adieu, I shall now select the three champions of each school," said Albus. He swept his hand in front of him, lowering the lights of the room to truly the tension. He could feel the room lean forward, collectively on the edge of their seat. "If your name should be called, you are to go to the ante-chamber behind me, where information for the first task will be given."

At once, the Goblet spat out a piece of paper. "The Beauxbatons champion," he said, holding the paper aloft. "Is Fleur Delacour!"

A Veela stood up, surrounded by cheers. Quite noticeably, most of the cheers came from the boys from the other schools; her fellow students from the french school were cold to her. It was to be expected, however. The French magical community was notoriously anti-creature, and staunchly against anything that wasn't a wizard - it was why the Veela, for the most part, migrated from there.

"Now, moving onto the next school," continued Albus. Another piece of paper flew from the Goblet. "The Durmstrang champion is Viktor Krum!"

Albus was almost jealous of the reaction that the Bulgarian earned from his peers. The other Durmstrang students stomped their feet, raucous cheers rocking the hall and Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students alike rushed to their feet to cheer him on. The sound was almost deafening.

"Silence!" Albus bellowed, and the hall quickly became silent. The show of respect for his authority did help to sooth his wounded ego. "Now, finally. The moment that you've _all_ been waiting for."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, to hold the moment over his willing audience.

"The Hogwarts champion," continued Albus Dumbledore. "Is Cedric Diggory!"

An apt choice, thought Albus. Diggory was a capable student; he wouldn't set the world alight, but then again none of the champions would. Diggory raised from his seat, his face showing a modest joy at being chosen. He even walked to Albus and shook his hand, thanking him profusely for the opportunity.

Then, as Albus had considered, the Goblet flared to life once more; however, unlike the pale blue flame that it was once wreathed in, a brilliant green flame poured from it.

A fourth piece of paper flew from the Goblet.

" _Harry Potter_."

* * *

 **So, there it is.**

 **Harry is in the Triwizard Tournament. I like to think of this as the end of the first _act_ of the story, and the next act will be the tournament. I hope you enjoyed Dumbledore's point of view; It's difficult to capture him like this, and I hope I did it justice.**

 **Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story, and if there's anything you'd like to see.**

 **Thank you.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi all.**

 **Here's the next chapter - I hope you all enjoy it.**

 **Let me know what you think of it, and what you'd like to see in future chapters.**

 **Thank you!**

* * *

Despite the fact that Harry had slept on a sofa, he awoke with more rest than he'd had in weeks. Tonks had kindly lent a blanket to him, and it was far cozier than he'd expected.

As November had finally arrived, so too did the shortening of the days, and the cold wind that filled the air. Tonks' flat was still cloaked in darkness, Harry having fallen asleep early the night before after the exhaustion of the day prior. He imagined that Tonks wouldn't share in his early rising, and so used the time to familiarise himself with his surroundings.

Beyond anything else, Tonks' flat was _small_ ; Auror pay was evidently not exemplary. If he were to lay down on the floor, Harry imagined he'd cover the majority of the area of her living room floor. Her kitchen was so small he'd first thought that she must shrink herself down to a size of a house-elf in order to use it effectively. And yet, there was a sense of _Tonks_ about the place. Weird Sisters posters filled the walls, and a battered broom was milling in the corner of the room.

However, in his dazed musings, he recognised his own need for sustenance; his stomach making its presence known. Tonks had said she would make him breakfast before he went back to Hogwarts, but Harry suspected that _that_ was highly unlikely and so he resolved to use the _said_ kitchen. A quick perusal of the fridge showed that there was little to make, other than bacon a couple of bacon rashers that Tonks' had hidden behind empty milk bottles. He wasn't an especially good cook, but he thought he could manage to grill bacon. He seemed to recall from one conversation or another that Tonks drank coffee like a fish in the morning, and he began boiling the kettle too.

Briefly, Harry thought of the outcome of the ceremony that'd gone on yesterday evening. He wondered if Neville had indeed escaped Fate's talons this year; Harry hoped he had. He'd prefer to have not gone through the mind-numbing tedium of guarding the artifact to have it all been for naught.

It was just at the time that he was beginning to wonder how it was that Tonks' liked her bacon, that he heard her footsteps against the wooden floor, her treading entirely indelicate.

"Mornin'," she slurred, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her top riding up slightly as she walked into the kitchen, showing a small section of her pale stomach.

"I made coffee," Harry said, handing her a mug that she took gratefully, holding it as though it were the holy grail. She took a huge drink, uncaring of the temperature, and groaned in unadulterated joy.

"You're the best, Harry," said Tonks, her free arm wrapping around his waist. "I should have you take care of me more often."

Harry rather agreed with that thought.

"Aren't you the one supposed to be taking care of _me_?" he asked. "Being the grown-up and all?"

"Nah," said Tonks, shaking her head. "I'm shite at all that. And you're all wise beyond your years and stuff. It only makes sense."

Harry busied himself making food for the pair of them; he'd thought of making bacon sandwiches, but Tonks didn't have bread, or _butter_ , so that was out of the question. Tonks still had an arm wrapped around him as he did so.

"You're _warm_ ," said Tonks, by way of explanation, when Harry gave her a questioning glance. "And my flat is always freezing this time of year."

"Don't you have the house-warming charms?" asked Harry, and he inwardly questioned why he did so. He had _Tonks_ holding onto him. It was hardly something he wanted to end.

"Nah, I could never get them to work," said Tonks, burying her face in his chest. "I'm rubbish at house charms. I tried to get the self-cleaning kitchen charm to work, and all that happened is I managed to put a hole in the roof," Tonks gestured to the roof, where one of the tiles was a different shade of white to the rest. She pouted. "So no house-warming charms for me."

"I guess I'll just have to stick around, won't I?" asked Harry, smiling down at her.

"Well, I could think of worse things," said Tonks, beaming back up to Harry. "But speaking of where you are; shouldn't you be at Hogwarts soon?"

"I doubt they'd even notice I'm gone," said Harry. "Besides, my first lesson today is double Potions, and I'm sure I could do without my thoughts being invaded."

"Have you made any progress with your Occulemency?" asked Tonks, finishing off her coffee.

"Not really," said Harry, boiling the kettle again, as Tonks still barely looked conscious after one cup. "I can't really tell without a legilimens testing me, and the only one I know is Snape and _that's_ the opposite of what I want."

"I'd help you with that, but you're the only thing in my life at the minute that _isn't_ causing me a headache and I don't _really_ want that to change." Said Tonks, accepting a second mug of coffee.

"Is work still crap?" Asked Harry, de-wrinkling the uniform he was wearing; and, had been wearing for the entire night.

"When is work ever _not_ crap, Harry?" Asked Tonks, sighing slightly, her brown hair darkening a shade. "I'd just like to be doing something _useful_ for once, but I know if I complain my boss is gonna hate me."

"At least you're going to help me make sure Snape never ruins another student's life ever again." Said Harry, earning a smile from Tonks.

"Ah, _vindication_. There's nothing quite as sweet," Said Tonks, sipping from her mug. "Hey, could you summon my wand for me? I left it in the bathroom and I can't be arsed to walk and get it."

Harry nodded, quietly casting the charm, and from the room next door there came Tonks' wand, whistling through the air; in truth, it was a miracle Harry caught it.

"Whoa, Harry," said Tonks, taking her wand from him. "You might want to learn how to control that spell so you don't _impale_ yourself."

Harry pushed a hand through the mess of his hair. "It just happens with some spells," he said. "I never seem to have the proper control over them."

"What do you mean _control_?"

"This is going to sound ridiculous, but I sometimes seem to put too much power into some spells," said Harry, sheepishly. "It's not consistent; with most element-based magic I'm fine but charms tend to always come out a little wonky."

"Could that be what's going on with your side-project?" Asked Tonks. "You said it gets away from you sometimes. Maybe this is why."

"I don't think so," said Harry. "Transfiguration is usually fine, and especially considering it's natural magic, it shouldn't be a problem."

"You got it from Olivander's first-hand, right?" Asked Tonks.

Harry nodded. "Willow and Unicorn-hair."

"Then I'm all out of ideas."

"I'm hoping that it's just because I'm still a teenager," said Harry. "My magic is still changing. Eventually, I think it'll settle down, and my wand can re-attune itself with me."

Tonks hmm-ed. Harry was about to ask her thoughts on it but was stopped by a knock on the door.

Harry looked at Tonks in confusion.

"I've no idea who that could be," said Tonks, her voice filled with confusion. "Mum wouldn't come to see me this early."

Tonks left the kitchen, and opened the door, though just enough so that only she was revealed. The last voice Harry would've ever expected came out of it.

"Morning, Auror Tonks," said Albus Dumbledore. "I trust Harry is still here?"

"How did you know he was here in the first place?" Asked Tonks, before shaking herself out of it. "Never mind. You-you're Albus Dumbledore. That's how."

The headmaster smiled. "Quite," he said. "May I come in?"

Harry watched as Tonks nodded, opening the door to reveal the Headmaster. It was not yet light outside, but Dumbledore's robes could've been their own _sun_ for how bright and garish they were.

"Ah, Harry," said the Headmaster, meeting Harry in the kitchen. "I take it that your visit was okay?"

Harry smiled. "It… _helped_ , Professor," said Harry. "But Sir, why are you here?"

"Harry, if I may be blunt?" asked the Headmaster of Harry, to which he nodded. "Your name was selected from the Goblet of Fire."

Harry's blood ran _cold_.

"W-what?"

"Last night, your name was drawn from the Goblet of Fire," said the Headmaster. He even had the slip of paper in his hand to prove it.

And, all of a sudden, the walls began to cave in.

 _My name was called._

How could this happen? This was impossible. _Everything_ was supposed to be fine. _Nobody_ else's name was supposed to be called.

"Y-y-you p-promised." stammered Harry, bent at the waist as his chest contracted fitfully, his skin feeling as though it was on fire.

"I know, Harry. I know I did," said Dumbledore, softly. Regretfully. Harry couldn't hear him; the blood was already in his ears.

 _My name was called._

 _My name was called._

 _ **My**_ _name was called._

He couldn't breathe. His body felt heavy and groggy, and not his own.

 _ **My**_ _name was called._

He felt Tonks slip her hand into his, and yet not even that helped. He could dimly feel her rubbing small circles on his back, grounding him, solidifying him. Despite it all, she felt like she was a million miles away.

"It's okay, Harry. It's going to be okay," she soothed, whispering softly into his ear.

He couldn't draw a proper breath, his heart hammering in his chest.

This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. He was _supposed_ to be left alone. Like he _should_ be. This was not _his_ life.

"Harry, I need for you to breathe for me, okay?" continued Tonks. "Please Harry, I need you to try and copy my breathing."

Harry could see Tonks to his side, taking long, deep breaths. He tried to copy her, but with each breath his chest wracked and he could not control it.

"It's okay, Harry, it's all okay," said Tonks. "You're going to be okay."

He tried to focus on his breathing; to block out anything but Tonks next to him. He tried _desperately_ to centre himself on that. In. And out. In. And out.

 _ **My**_ _name was called._

Slowly, ever so slowly, his chest began to cease its burning and his heart in its hammering. Tonks felt nearer and nearer. The world opened up again, and the walls stopped approaching.

"It's all okay," Tonks soothed. "You're okay."

"T-thank you," said Harry. He realised that he was nearly crushing her hand with the force of his grip, but he couldn't let go. He felt as though he'd fall into the floor if he did.

"I'm sorry that this is happening to you, Harry," said Dumbledore.

"How could any of this happened?" asked Tonks, taking focus from Harry, and he appreciated it immensely. "Didn't you put precautions in place? How could they not have worked, Headmaster?"

"It is thought that someone has confounded the Goblet to allow Harry to take part," said the Headmaster. "At first, the three school's champions were called. After that, the Goblet suddenly burst into light, and Harry's name was released."

"But surely that should have been impossible?" asked Tonks, confusedly. "The Goblet _shouldn't_ be able to be confounded. _Isn't_ its whole purpose that it's foolproof?"

"That _was_ what we had thought," said Dumbledore. "Apparently we were wrong."

" _You_ were wrong, Professor. _You._ "

"Yes, Auror Tonks, _I_ was wrong," said the Headmaster, still ever calm about the ordeal. "The fact still remains that Harry is forced to compete in the tournament."

"Because of _your_ incompetence," said Tonks, her hair vibrantly red, her eyes dark. "This can't be legal, Headmaster. You're forcing Harry, who is _not_ of age to compete in a competition that kills its contestants. He doesn't even have his OWLs, for God's sake!"

"I know. Believe me, had I any control over this at all, this wouldn't be happening," said Dumbledore, looking contrite. "The other reason I had for coming here was to ask Harry," looking at him. "Is there anyone you can think of that would do this to you?"

Harry shook his head; preferring not to speak.

"Well, Headmaster, do _you_ have any ideas?" asked Tonks.

"I have reason to believe that anyone who would do such a thing would have to be a figure of significant power," said Dumbledore. "Which is where I am confused, as I don't imagine Harry has incurred the wrath of anyone that fits that description."

Harry wondered for a moment. "C-could it be Lucius Malfoy?"

Professor Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't think so, Harry," he said. "Lucius has been on a well-documented trade visit to Persia for the last month or so."

"Could he have gotten someone else to do it for him?" Asked Tonks.

Dumbledore once again shook his head. "I do not think Lucius possesses influence over someone either powerful enough, or far-reaching enough, to do such a thing," said the Headmaster. "He is not the force he once was, despite his claims. Perhaps it is simply an accident of magic."

"I don't think that matters right now," said Tonks, agitation still found through the shade of her hair. "What matters is Harry's safety. Are you _sure_ he has to do this?"

"I'm afraid so," said the Headmaster, who then turned to Harry. "However, I think that with a great deal of hard work, you may be able to perform quite well. You possess great talent."

"His surname might as well be Emrys for all it matters," said Tonks, bristling. "He is _fourteen_! How could you expect a fourteen-year-old to survive the tasks of this tournament? In the last tournament, the last task was to subdue a _nundu single-handedly_. And they all _died_ , Headmaster."

"I'm quite aware of that, Auror," said the Headmaster. "However, several steps have been undertaken to ensure that does not happen on this occasion. And I feel I must say, you may be underestimating Harry's ability. He has done things with a wand that _I've_ never seen before, and I have been alive a longer time than most."

"But how will that matter? It doesn't matter how good he might well be, he'll still die if a Basilisk looks at him, or if a Kraken takes hold and strangles him," said Tonks, furious.

"I know this, Auror," said Dumbledore, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "All that I ask is that you have faith."

"Well I need a little more than faith, Professor, but okay," said Tonks. "Will you at least be helping Harry prepare for the tasks?"

"I'm afraid my position prevents me from doing that," said Dumbledore, a look of regret on his face.

"Then you have lost my faith, Headmaster."

There was a moment of silence then. Tonks raging, Dumbledore apologetic, and Harry oddly… _thoughtful_.

"It might be okay," said Harry, quietly. "I mean, I don't have to _win_. I just have to compete."

"Exactly, Harry," said the Professor. "Harry, I've seen your progress over the past years, and I can say with total certainty that you're the most magically astute person competing in this tournament. The others may have an advantage in years, but you have a _gift_ that they do not have. This could be the time to display it."

Harry nodded slightly, beginning to accept the information that'd been given to him. "O-Okay," he said, nodding to himself. "Will I be allowed lesson time to prepare? Because I think I'd be better off _not_ going to History if that meant I survived."

Dumbledore smiled. "Of course, Harry," he said. "In fact, as a champion, you are not expected to attend any lessons at all."

Harry nodded.

"Harry," continued Dumbledore. "You may find it useful to talk to Neville about this; he may help you with the _experience_ factor."

Harry mulled over the thought. "What is the first task?" asked Harry. "And _when_ is it?"

"You'll find out tonight," said the Headmaster. "The champions were intended to find out yesterday evening after they were selected. But because you weren't there, it was delayed to today so that it would be fair. You're expected in my office at 5pm."

"Okay."

"I'll leave you to think on it," said the Headmaster. "I hope to see you soon, Harry."

And then he apparated away, silently, leaving Tonks and Harry, alone.

"Oh _Harry_ ," said Tonks, going to him, wrapping herself around him, and holding him with all of her strength. "How could he allow this to happen?"

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" asked Harry, whispering against her hair. "It's happening."

"But it shouldn't be, Harry," said Tonks, her grip tightening. "You don't deserve this."

"Maybe not, but lots of things happen to people who don't deserve them. I don't see how this any different."

Harry felt Tonks shiver, her body shaking slightly as she began to cry against his chest. He stroked circles into the small of her back. "It's alright, Tonks. I'm going to be okay."

"But what if you aren't?" asked Tonks, erratic. "What if something happens? What if you get hurt?"

"Well, it's not like I have a family to worry about me," said Harry. "It's better it's me than someone's child being taken away from them."

"That's not true!" aaid Tonks, her eyes shining with tears as she looked up at him. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd be fine without me," said Harry, earnest, unbelieving. He smiled slightly to her, as if to ease her worries. "There's plenty of people far better than me. Funnier people, or smarter people, or people that don't have _panic attacks_ because they have to talk to cashiers. You'll be okay."

"I won't be okay!" exclaimed Tonks. "I don't care about all those things; I don't care if you can't talk in public, and other people that can. I don't care about any other person in the world right now. I just care about _you_."

Harry decided to be brave, and kissed Tonks on the forehead, feeling the worry lines that formed there disappear against his lips.

"Then I guess I'd better survive this tournament then," said Harry.

"You'd _better_ ," said Tonks.

Harry didn't respond; choosing instead to just hold her, hoping that he was the same source of comfort to her as she was to him. For her part, Tonks just pressed her herself into him, the pressure of his body against hers a solidifying presence.

"I genuinely don't know what I'd do if you were gone," said Tonks, after a while. "I'd have to _actually_ do my work instead of doss around with you all the time."

"That's the true tragedy," said Harry, smiling. "Making you do your paperwork. I don't know how you'd cope."

Tonks slapped his chest lightly. "Hey! I can do paperwork," she said. "I _won't_. But I can."

Harry watched her wipe the tears away from her eyes.

"I care about you too, by the way."

"Of course you do," said Tonks, smiling as if it were obvious. "You made me _breakfast_. My parents don't even do that."

"They did raise you, to be fair. I think their duty of care is well and truly finished," said Harry. "Thanks for what you did with Dumbledore."

"It was more for my own benefit really," said Tonks, waving it away with a swipe of her hand. "He was being a dick."

"He's the _Headmaster_."

"No, he's _your_ Headmaster," corrected Tonks. "To me, he was a dick that hurt someone I care about. And I think I'm right about it being illegal."

"Can you check?" asked Harry. "Because I know I'm never going to get out of this tournament, but at least if they get punished it'll stop this happening to anyone else."

"Of course," said Tonks. "You know, just from knowing you I've gotten more cases than I've ever gotten from Dawlish."

"I'm sorry our friendship comes with research." Said Harry.

"It's alright," said Tonks, her arms rubbing his sides. "I'm sorry our friendship comes with chores, like cooking and consoling me over something that's happening _to you_."

"I'm pretty sure most friendships _are_ chores."

"That's just because people stress you out," said Tonks.

"True," said Harry, raking a hand through his hair. "I _did_ miss every flying lesson because my whole year would've been there. I still can't use a broom."

"You're missing out," said Tonks. "It's the _best_. You know," Tonks gave him a _look_. "I should let you _ride my broomstick_ sometime," with a enormous wink.

"I'm not sure that makes sense." Said Harry, though his face was still red.

"It's _provocative._ That's all that matters," said Tonks, grinning at Harry. "Though it probably would work better the other way around."

There was silence, for a looked as though she was fighting herself over whether or not to say something to him. Harry considered washing up, his mind oddly blank despite what'd happened. He suspected the reality of what was going to happen hadn't truly set in; he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Hey Harry?" began Tonks. Harry nodded. "Can I ask you something that's a bit personal?"

"Yeah, why not?" Harry asked, mostly rhetorically. She'd seen him even _today_ at the lowest he went, there was nothing that could've possibly been as bad as that.

"Have you always been so… _anxious_?" asked Tonks, softly. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"No, it's okay," said Harry, smiling a little. He trusted Tonks, without question. "I've had trouble with that stuff for ages. I don't think I've ever liked crowds or anything, but I think I was about _7_ when it got really bad."

"What happened?" asked Tonks, concerned. Her eyes, big and brown, peering up at him.

Harry took a deep breath, centering himself. "My relatives took me and my cousin Dudley to London on a day out," said Harry. "It was nearly Christmas and so it was super busy and while we were there, they left me to take Dudley to the Lego shop." Harry laughed, humourlessly. "I was just there. Alone. Surrounded by this sea of strangers for what felt like _hours_."

"Were you okay?" asked Tonks, worry etched on her face.

"Not really," said Harry, his eyes slightly lost, even then. "I had a panic attack, but because I was _7_ I didn't know what to do and so I just ended up blacking out on the pavement. Thankfully, I must've done accidental magic or something, because I woke up in a toilet cubicle by myself and the door was locked."

"That's horrible." said Tonks, taking his hand in hers.

"And now every time I'm in a crowd of people, I feel like I'm 7 all over again. Small and alone and terrified out of my skin," said Harry.

Dimly, Harry realised that she was the first person he'd told about that day. Not even Dumbledore knew.

"How could your relatives have done that to you?" asked Tonks, her eyes dark and her hair darker still.

"I think the less said about my relatives, the better," said Harry. "What made you ask?"

"I care about you. And part of caring is worrying," said Tonks, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. "I realised that if you're going to be a champion, there's going to be crowds of people watching."

"Oh. _Oh_."

"But! but it's going to be okay!" Tonks quickly insisted. "Because if there's one thing I can help you with, it's _confidence_."

"I'm pretty sure you said a similar thing about me and dating." said Harry, quietly.

"Okay, so I was wrong about that, but I'm right about this," said Tonks with a sureness in her voice that was so _entirely_ Tonks that Harry couldn't help but grin. "I can help you with this."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

* * *

Rather than attend any lessons that day, Harry instead opted to spend the day in Hogsmeade with Tonks as she was stationed there on that day; she'd mentioned that often there was so little to do in the small village on non-visiting days that she'd found herself bored more often than not, and that Harry's presence would provide a welcome point of interest in an otherwise dull day. Harry had wanted to draw; to free his mind of the worries that presented themselves, and to calm himself before he went to the Headmaster's office on that night. It was nice, Harry thought, that he could now find such solace in another person's company, even when they weren't saying a word to one-another.

So, it was an almost calm Harry that promptly walked into the Headmaster's office that afternoon. The door was already open, which Harry found peculiar, but he walked straight in. Only Professor Dumbledore was there; the Headmaster was sat behind his desk, a thoughtful look upon his face. Harry briefly wondered if he had arrived too early, or if the others simply wished to be fashionably late.

"Ah, Harry. Do take a seat," said the Headmaster. "Before anything else, I'd just like to apologise for how I spoke to you earlier today. I was brash, and cavalier. In truth, I've been coming to terms with what's happening as well."

"It's okay, Professor." Said Harry, with an uneasy smile.

"No Harry, it's not," said the Headmaster. "You mean a great deal to me. I don't wish to see you hurt, and I fear that may happen in this tournament. I wished to be blase, to show that you have nothing to fear, but I simply can't. I mean this kindly, but this is not the sort of thing that I can imagine you doing well in. I want you to be able to live your life; to do the good that you are destined to do. To be a force for good in our world. And I don't think the tournament will help you with that. And I don't wish to admit this, but I'm afraid for you Harry."

Harry thought on his words for a moment.

"You might be right, Professor," said Harry. "I imagine someone like Neville would suit this challenge far better than I would; Merlin knows he took the last three years better than anyone else could've. But by some accident, this is my cross to bear, and I _must_ be the one to bear it. There is no other option."

"I'm glad to hear you think that way," said Dumbledore. "Harry, if I may be honest?"

"Of course, Professor."

"I do not think you were chosen by accident," said the Headmaster. "I have told you that I believe that Voldemort is on the rise once more. I think he may have had a hand in this."

"But why would Voldemort chose me?" asked Harry, confusion in his green eyes. "Surely if he were to chose one person to torment, it would be Neville. He's been doing that for three years now."

"Indeed he has, Harry," said Professor Dumbledore. "I think perhaps his goals have changed."

"And I'm his new target?" asked Harry, worried.

"Perhaps," mused Dumbledore. "Perhaps he sees something valuable within you; just as I have. I confess I do not know the entire inner workings of the man behind the name, but I do know this. You have, just as Neville has, the power to thwart his machinations."

"Yes, but I imagine Neville received help from you with what he did," said Harry. "I'm going to be alone."

"Indeed, I helped Neville. In fact I chose, instead of solving the problems for myself, for Neville to solve them because that is what Neville _needed_ ," said the Headmaster.

"I had suspected that you did," said Harry. "And I think we are better for it, because now Neville knows he can beat Voldemort as he _already_ has _._ "

"I do enjoy talking with you, Harry. You have an ability to understand that's unparalleled," said Dumbledore, smiling. "And because of that, I can be honest. What you _need_ is to be the finest version of yourself possible. Be strong, just as you have been these years. Be resilient, as you have learned to be. And depend upon yourself, just as only _you_ can. You have said that you will be alone; normally, that would be a weakness. But to you, that will be a strength. Be _strong_."

"I will, Professor." said Harry, a solemnity in his voice.

Their conversation was cut short as footsteps were heard from beyond the Headmaster's office door. Said footsteps belonged to the other champions as in walked first the Beauxbatons champion, the Veela that'd captured everyone's interest. She was then followed by Viktor Krum, and then Cedric Diggory.

"I'm glad to see you've all managed to make your way here," said the Headmaster. "Please: Fleur, Viktor, Cedric. Take a seat."

Harry clenched his hands, his anxiety beginning to take root.

"Will this take long?" asked Krum, a gruff air of dissatisfaction about him.

"It will take as long as it needs to, Mr Krum," said Professor Dumbledore. "Now, I'd like all three of you to meet Harry Potter," Dumbledore gestured to Harry, who kept his eyes firmly on the ground.

"The cheater?" asked the Veela, looking down her nose at Harry.

"Now, Miss Delacour, we can most assuredly say Harry here did not cheat to enter," said Dumbledore with an easy, comforting smile though it did little to ease Harry's nerves. "He has been entered against his willing, and I'd like for you all to show him support in any way that you can. In the spirit of international competition."

Fleur sniffed dismissively. "You _would_ say that," she said. "You are simply supporting your school's _second_ champion."

"Miss Delacour, what benefit would my placing of a fourth year in this tournament do?" asked the Headmaster, winking discretely to Harry. "Surely, if I felt that my school needed two champions, I would've picked a higher year student, so as to maximise the likelihood of success?"

Fleur rolled her eyes. "I think you are simply covering your back."

Dumbledore smiled down at her. Harry imagined the look would resemble something a lot like condescension on anyone other than the Headmaster. "We are all allowed to believe whatever we wish, Miss Delacour. I cannot begrudge you that."

"Then I believe that you're allowing a _child_ to compete against me because you think it will distract me," said Fleur, agitation showing in the blazing of her eyes. "I will not allow _that_ to happen."

"What is the first task?" asked Krum, gruffly, cutting away the brewing argument with in one fell swoop. Harry was quietly grateful; he was beginning to get deeply furious about what the Veela was saying, anger breaking through his anxiety, and he doubted that would've ended well for anyone.

"Thank you, Mr Krum, for refocusing this meeting," said Professor Dumbledore. "The first task is a test of your ability to think, and to solve problems, under pressure. A test of critical thinking. You shall not be told the details for this very reason. It will take place on the 24th November; I urge you all to prepare carefully. It is not a task I would take lightly. Any questions?"

Fleur raised her hand, then spoke without being acknowledged. "Yes, I have one," she said. "Will the _child_ be competing on the same footing as we are, or is he being treated with preferential treatment?"

Harry decided then that he disliked Fleur Delacour.

" _Harry_ will be going through the same tasks as you are, as is only fair," said the Headmaster. "Now, unless anyone else has any _pertinent_ questions, dinner has just been served and I do not wish to keep all of you waiting for any great length of time."

Fleur huffed, fleeing from the room with all the grace of stabbed rat. She may be beautiful, thought Harry, but she was still a human, and an annoying one at that. Viktor nodded to the Headmaster stoically, and calmly walked from the office.

"Thank you Headmaster." said Cedric, speaking for the first time. Harry echoed his words, and followed him out of the office.

As Harry made it out of the end of the corridor that the Headmaster's office, Cedric stopped in his path.

"Harry?" asked Cedric, a dis-familiarity with the name colouring his words. Harry nodded, not meeting his eyes. "I'm Cedric, nice to meet you."

Cedric stuck out his hand, and Harry shook it, conscious of the fact that his hands were warm from the nerves.

"N-nice to meet you too," said Harry. He chanced a look up at his Cedric's face, and he saw that the older boy had a warm, open smile.

"Look Harry, I don't believe what Fleur was saying. I don't think you put your name forward." said Cedric. Harry could see that he had one dimple, on his left cheek, and his hair was sort of a mess, but in a way that seemed to be on purpose.

"Thank you."

"Initially, I thought you might've," said Cedric, a touch of humility in his voice. "But then I saw you in that meeting and it was obvious."

"Why?"

"You looked terrified. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but there," said Cedric, his smile widening. "So, a lot of people think that you put your name in, and a lot of people aren't thrilled about it. In my house, especially. You might get a bit of push-back, but I'll try and set them straight for you, okay?"

"Thanks, Cedric," said Harry, truly grateful.

"It's alright, Harry. It's the least I could do," said Cedric. "I don't know if I could've handled what's happening to you at your age."

"I can't handle it."

Cedric smiled. "Well, whatever's the case, if you want any help; don't hesitate to ask."

Harry nodded, struck by how _kind_ Cedric was. He wondered if this excessive kindness was a Hufflepuff thing.

Cedric leaned in, as if to share a secret. "Us _Hogwarts_ champions have to stick together, don't we?"

Harry smiled at him, and Cedric seemed to be content at that, walking off toward the Great Hall. Harry did not, though.

Rather than that, Harry took off running.

He could face the world later; he needed time to process.

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it; again, let me know what you think.**

 **Thanks!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Here's the next chapter - I hope you enjoy it.**

 **Uni's started up again, so updates might be a touch more sporadic, though I think they will still be fairly regular.**

 **Feel free to review, and let me know what you thought of the chapter as well as what you'd like to see in the future.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Time, it seemed, would not be the answer to Harry's problems.

Harry, despite his best efforts, was not handling the pressure of being a champion particularly well. Mostly because when Cedric had said that he'd be getting a lot of attention after his name was called, he had _grossly_ undersold the magnitude. In truth, the only saving grace of the whole ordeal was that nearly everyone outside of his own year did not know what he looked like, or who he was.

The Marauders Map was becoming more of a boon than Harry could've ever realised.

Harry had preemptively decided to avoid the Gryffindor common room as a precautionary measure; his peers reaction to his fight with Malfoy was enough of a warning sign in that regard. He'd taken to sleeping inside Professor Lupin's old classroom in a conjured bed; it was a good test of his conjuration, in truth, that if he wished to get a good night's sleep he needed to truly focus on what he was doing. He'd avoided most of his classes too. Even Transfiguration. He missed that, but little else.

It was odd actually; had he not had the prospect of the tournament looming over his head, his life had slightly improved.

However, nothing could shake the welling of _apprehension_ that began to form within him.

He'd thrown himself head first into preparation for the first task; he'd researched prior tournaments for likely tasks and given that most of the first tasks revolved around battling magical creatures, had read the syllabus of the Care of Magical Creatures course for relevant information. He'd _further_ studied the Northern Magics; it was fair to say by now that he was probably the foremost student of the subject in the last hundred or so years, despite the fact that he'd found little in the way of true success. Harry had even read through the NEWT course for Transfiguration for the second time, so as to fully submerse himself with his subject of focus.

He'd taken Dumbledore's advice to heart; to focus on his strengths. And they were _Transfiguration_. It was the only thing that would offer him any hope of possibly performing at a level so that he would survive the tournament. Harry knew the _core_ areas of Transfiguration like the back of his hand; he could transmute, or conjure just about anything he set his mind to. He could reform the earth, change the winds and spark flame in the dampest places and bring water in the driest lands. He knew he could probably take the NEWT at any time and perform adequately; he was the student of Albus Dumbledore, after all. But that wouldn't be enough. _Adequate_ wouldn't be enough.

He needed the _Northern Magics._

It was simply the facts of it that were against him. The others had three years of experience over him, _and_ they were the high-achievers of their age. Harry would have to be not _only_ exceptional, but _so_ far beyond that to be their equal. He was not as strong, or as confident, or as experienced as they were. So he would simply have to be _better_ than they were. He would have to be _so, so_ much better than they were.

He was working at a pace he before hadn't thought possible. Entire years worth of content were worked through in an afternoon; his understanding of magical theory reaching heights that he could not have even dreamed of. Truly, if he survived the tournament, he'd be able to take Transfiguration in directions entirely new - he would do to Transfiguration what _Dumbledore_ did to Transfiguration. _If_ he survived.

But something in Harry was telling him that he wasn't doing enough. That something was _wrong_. It came to him, much the same way that he was doing something wrong with the Northern Magics; the feeling of being so close, and yet so far away. The foundations simply felt _off_ ; it was as though he were working with material that did not fit the job. And he could do little about it, other than simply work himself to the bone, and to put every _ounce_ of effort he possessed into his work so that he even if he never reached his goal, he could say, with the utmost posterity, that he tried. But he desperately wished he did more than try.

The Northern Magics were his own personal nightmare, yet they were also his salvation in many ways. He could not achieve the higher magics; no matter how _perfectly_ he cast them, no matter the focus he possessed and no matter the control he _felt_ he had over the magic, he was simply not able to achieve the result he needed. The lesser arts were beautiful, of that there was no question, and they were wonderfully expressive; at times they were the perfect outpouring of himself. They were _art_ to him, but so much more. They were the barest expression of his very essence, his very _being_ , in the form of a beautiful, artisan work of magical art. But _art_ was not enough. He needed _force_.

He needed the unbridled _majesty_ of the higher magics. He needed for his wand to become an instrument of utter _power_. For his body to be the conduit through which the Gods enacted their _will_ upon the world. _That_ is what the Higher arts were, and that was still _so_ elusive. And perhaps that was what stung; it was not his knowledge that held him back, but his _ability_. He knew the idea that he should form in his mind. He knew the words, for they were the same as the lesser arts. He knew what he _wished_ to occur; the only limiting factor was his own understanding. The very thought made him want to tear his hair out.

And with only twenty-four days with which to work, it was always going to be an uphill struggle.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, though the day for which the afternoon belonged was lost on Harry. He knew that he was time-tabled to be in Potions, but other than that, the world was mostly passing by as a blur of elemental mastery and Transfiguration theory that he was about ten years younger than he ought to have been to read. In the search for use of the true power of the Northern Magics, he'd researched some of the contemporary magics of the time; the Slavic folk-magics, the Celtic runic-magics and so on.

What he'd found is that their magical system was ultimately tied into a more _Godly_ vision of the world. So much of the magic was based upon the wrath, or the kindness, or the will of the Gods; such a thought was lost on modern magic. It was why most the runic systems were usually symbols of Death, or the All-father, or of Gods of Nature or Gods of War. Modern magic was based around the will and want of the wizard. Harry had thought that perhaps that was the fault he was encountering; that he was trying to be a force all of himself, where he _ought_ to have been seeking to be a conduit for a greater power's force.

It seemed that _that_ was to be his undoing. Because one could not just announce that they were willing to be the instrument of a God's will, nor did Harry particularly want to, nor was he a Godly person to begin with.

Harry had never really had much, but he knew that he always had _himself_. He was perfectly happy with himself; he was happy with his own company, with his ability and with his self. To have that stripped from you in the pursuit of power was _abhorrent_. To have one's own self taken away for any reason was abhorrent.

And, try as he might, he was beginning to think that the Triwizard Tournament was abhorrent too.

The day he discovered that he was an unwelcome participant in the event, he was shocked into obedience, his mind simply too numb to do anything other than accept what was occurring. But the more time he gave to thinking about the ordeal, the worse his situation became.

He didn't wish to be angry at Dumbledore; the Headmaster had given him so much over the years. He'd given him most of the few connection he had to his parents and Transfiguration texts that were worth more than half of Hogwarts. The Headmaster had helped him enter into the magical world and not be lost in the commotion. Most importantly though, Dumbledore had been a good friend to Harry.

Harry knew that Dumbledore had seen him as an apprentice of sorts. They talked on matters of theory that Harry doubted Dumbledore talked with to anyone else. Harry enjoyed it; he enjoyed having the Headmaster as a mentoring figure. But more than that, Dumbledore offered him a calm source of company through the years where everyone, and everything, else felt so _abrasive_. He was support. Dumbledore helped him cope.

But now, Harry struggled against that. He _knew_ that his name being called was _not_ the Headmaster's fault. He _knew_ that. The Headmaster was not the one that put his name in the Goblet, nor was he the force that had chosen him to compete. But he _was_ the one charged with ensuring it _didn't_ happen, and try as he might, Harry found it difficult to feel anything other than anger at the whole ordeal, because where Dumbledore was concerned, things very rarely occurred coincidentally.

Harry had always known they had their differences. Dumbledore was always prone to control; he liked to dictate action, and to bring about destiny under his own terms. For some, like Neville, that worked perfectly; Neville was absurdly willing to the be the vehicle that Dumbledore moved within. From what Harry could gather, challenges would pop up and Neville took it as his duty to be the world's savior. Dumbledore was always willing to let him be so.

It just struck Harry as _wrong_ to be in that position, as he was then. To be little more than an instrument of someone else's machinations. He appreciated the help, and guidance, that Dumbledore gave him, but to be stuck inside someone's plans like Harry was then was _dismal._

It made Harry all the more glad that he'd spent his first few years in obscurity, and he longed beyond all longing to return.

But he couldn't hate Dumbledore for it. Dumbledore had given Harry so much and to spit that back at him because he _probably_ had a hand, incidental or not, in Harry's fate felt wrong. He was _angry_ , of course, but Harry respected the Headmaster too much for anything else.

He just hoped that Dumbledore's activity was _passive_. He hoped that it was not his direct will that placed Harry in the predicament he faced, because Dumbledore _knew_ that Harry would hate what was happening. Harry was not like Neville, he didn't thrive on being the main character in Dumbledore's game.

However such thoughts, he knew, wouldn't change anything. He was simply distracting himself from the work he needed to do; like the affects of conjured elements against magical beings. They were _minimal_ , at best.

Harry was saved for pondering the nuisance of it all when he heard a knock against the door.

"Harry Potter?" called an unfamiliar voice through the door. "I was told I'd be able to find you here. I'm Ludo Bagman - I work in the Ministry?" Harry opened the door, revealing an athletic, though over-the-hill man who stood only two or three inches taller than he himself was. "Ah, thanks. I'm here to talk to you about the Tournament."

Harry walked back into the centre of the room - wordlessly conjuring a pair of, slightly misshapen, high-backed chairs - and taking a seat. Bagman did the same without prompt. Harry looked at the man, and he was reminded of a used-car salesman.

"So, Harry - you don't mind me calling you Harry, do you?" asked Bagman, chuckling nervously to himself. Harry had no idea why, and he simply stared at the man. "Okay, so Mr Potter; it's my duty to inform you that you will be required to attend the Wand-weighing ceremony later today."

"And why is it that you're the one to tell me that?" asked Harry, his voice slightly weary. Sleep had not been a priority recently.

"That's not important," said Bagman, waving off the question with a swot of his hand, though Harry could see his brow bead with sweat. "What's important is _you_ , Harry. We at the ministry wish to ensure that, as a champion, you are treated with the utmost consideration and care, and that's why I'm here."

Harry looked at him oddly - that didn't make any sense. It sounded like a pretty lie.

"And how does your presence make that so?"

"Well, Har- I'm sorry, Mr Potter," said Bagman, shuffling slightly. "I am a well-respected figure in the world. My presence here is - actually, can I be honest with you?"

Harry nodded.

"The _real_ reason here is because my department is responsible for this tournament. My sub-division is responsible for the odds and betting for the tournament," explained Bagman, though it still sounded like a lie to Harry. "So, I'm here to see what kind of odds I should put on your chances of winning."

Fairly morbidly, Harry thought that being the bookie responsible for the odds of his death was better than being an envoy of good-will by the Ministry.

"So, you work in the Sub-department of Gambling?" asked Harry, smiling inwardly.

"Wha - Of course!" Exclaimed Bagman, catching himself. "Yes, yes. I'm the _head_ of that Department."

"That's odd, because it doesn't exist."

"What?"

"I made it up." said Harry, simply. He did not know why, but sleep-deprivation made him blunter than usual. "Why are you actually here?"

Ludo Bagman blanched at the question. Harry had to wonder what sort of a man he was; that he would so readily, and so poorly, lie to a teenager.

"Well, you see, the thing is-" said Bagman, blustering. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his tie again.

"Yes?"

"I'm here to offer you an opportunity!" Exclaimed Bagman, sounding as though he'd achieved an epiphany. "Yes! Of course! I'm here because I want to make us both money!"

"And how would you do that?" asked Harry.

"Well, here's the thing," began Bagman, oddly confident. "I've placed a fairly _size-able_ bet on you to get less twenty-five points in the first task. If _you_ were to be…complicit in that, I'd be more than happy to make it worth your while."

Harry wasn't stunned in the slightest by his request, and the beginnings of agitation were forming. "And what _exactly_ do you mean that?"

"What I'm asking, Mr Potter, is this," said Bagman, sitting up in his chair. Harry had the urge to dispel it to watch him fall to the floor. "If you were to _ensure_ that I win that money, there would be a monetary advantage for your work."

"But why me?" asked Harry, quite annoyed.

" _Well_ , I think we both know why," said Bagman, his voice light and easy, almost laughing.

"Please, Mr Bagman, enlighten me." Harry told Bagman.

"It's just that, well, you _cheated_ to get in and you wouldn't be against _cheating_ again."

"Please leave, Mr Bagman." said Harry, pointing to the door, flicking it open with a wave of his wand. Ludo rushed to do so, near sprinting out of the room in his haste.

Harry flung a spell against the wall in agitation, knocking half the bricks loose in his anger. He dimly realised that his irritation had suppressed any anxiety he would've felt; it happened fairly often recently.

* * *

Bagman, being incompetent, didn't think to tell Harry a time, or a place, for the Wand-weighing ceremony. If it weren't for the Map, he wouldn't have stood a chance.

Harry waited until he could see that Viktor and Cedric were in the same room, then made his way over there, hoping that it wasn't a private conversation about Quidditch.

Thankfully it wasn't, though the alternative wasn't any better.

The ceremony was occurring in one of the more historical towers of the castle; the White Tower. Harry recalled the legend of the tower was that, before the castle was a school, whenever the castle was being defended the ruling lord would place their finest wizard in the White Tower to protect it. That was why it was called the White Tower - because no drop of their own blood had ever been spilled in there.

Fittingly, by the time Harry had arrived, out of breath at the climbing of the steps, the urge to spill a great deal of blood had began to form as the White Tower's historic presence was destroyed by the presence of a camera, and a tabloid journalist next to it. Rather immediately, Harry wondered why on earth Dumbledore would allow them onto the grounds.

"Ah, _wonderful_!" called the Journalist, her voice already shrill and irritating. "Now that all four champions are here, we can begin. I'm Rita Skeeter, I'm here to ask you a few questions. Getting to know the stars of the show and all that."

"Quite," said Albus Dumbledore, appearing as though from thin air behind him. "But first, the four of you must have your wands thoroughly examined, and to do that is Garrick Ollivander; the finest wand-maker in the world. He will check if they are in working order for the tournament."

Harry could hear Fleur huff at the Headmaster's words as Dumbledore side-stepped at the door, showing the Wand master behind him. Ollivander looked much the same as in the past years, Harry thought, with his pale complexion and thin frame. His eyes, though, were even more striking than before; his silver eyes held wisdom beyond comprehension.

"Miss Delacour, if I could look at your wand first?" Asked Ollivander, his voice as soft as ever.

Fleur, as there was no other word for it, _flounced_ over to Olivander, dropping the wand into his hands and moved back, standing next to Harry.

"Hmm…Inflexible…Rosewood…Hmm, Veela hair core?" said Olivander, whispering mostly to myself, his hands checking for damage. "Yes, rare but not unknown."

"It's my Grandmother's hair."

"Hmm," replied Ollivander. "Quite temperamental wand, I must say. It's in immaculate condition," before holding it in a firm grip. " _Olourous_."

From Fleur's wand came an elegant swan, though it was inanimate. A rather impressive Transfiguration when one considered that it was _not_ his own wand. Ollivander returned the wand, and Fleur took it back graciously. The wand seemed gracious also, with a rainbow of sparks emanating from its tip.

"Mr Krum, if I could have yours next?" asked Ollivander.

"Your whole school hates you, you know." whispered Fleur, venomously, to Harry. Harry wondered a moment if he should be offended, or scared, but quickly realised he was too tired and irritated for either.

"I don't care." Harry whispered back, staring straight at Ollivander's work.

"And the entire magical community of Europe believes you a fraud." Fleur continued. Harry tried to consider why it was she was saying what it was she was saying, but came up short.

"Once more, I don't care." Harry told Fleur.

"And that I truly hope that you are hurt in this tournament, so that you learn your lesson," said Fleur, almost conversationally. " _Little_ boys shouldn't play with things beyond their station."

"I, again, don't care."

"Did you know that many people are betting to see if you're going to die in this tournament?" Asked Fleur. "I haven't partaken myself, but I understand their desire. What with your age, and inexperience, it's an almost _certainty_."

"Fascinating." Harry told her, his eyes never losing focus on Ollivander.

"Thank you, Mr Krum. Do give Mykew my regards when you see him next," said Ollivander, blissfully distracting Harry from Fleur's words.

"I will." Said Krum, nodding once to the wand maker.

"Now, Mr Diggory, if I could see your wand now?" asked Ollivander. Cedric nodded, passing his wand with a flourish. "I did love making this wand. One of my finer efforts, I must say. Twelve and three-quarters…Healthy unicorn hair…Ash…It's perfect. I take it you treat it regularly?"

"I polish it most nights, sometimes twice." said Cedric, grinning mostly to himself.

"Immaculate," said Ollivander. "Now, Mr Potter, if you would."

Harry walked up, handing the wand to the wand to Ollivander handle-first.

"Thank you, Mr Potter," said Ollivander. "Hmm…Another one of mine, though not quite the piece that Mr Diggory possesses. Nine inches of Willow…a disgruntled unicorn's hair…useful for Transfiguration…but that's not right- that _can't_ be right. That _shouldn't_ happen."

"Is something wrong, Mr Ollivander?" asked Harry.

"Of no! Of course not, dear boy. Just an old man's rambles," said Ollivander, though he looked alarmed. "It's in _fine_ condition, but would you mind speaking to me for a few moments after all is said and done?"

Harry nodded, inwardly worried. Perhaps Ollivander would provide some insight on problems?

"Now, as you have all been given the seal of approval, I should think it would be a good idea to Dinner," said Dumbledore. "Lessons haven't quite finished, but food will be out for you."

"Oh but wait!" called Rita Skeeter, her voice too loud. "I believe there are still pictures to be taken and interviews to be done!"

Dumbledore frowned for but a moment. "Oh, of course. How could I forget?" he asked of himself. "Very well."

Rita Skeeter rushed to assemble the four of them into a picture. Cedric and Viktor were made to sit on chairs in front of Fleur and Harry, who stood.

"Now, do remember to smile!" Skeeter told them. "Your _adoring_ public await!"

Harry could feel Fleur next to him, leaning in. "I can't wait to see you fail." she whispered into his ear, just as the picture was taken.

Harry ignored her, his thoughts simply to focused upon Ollivander's words, and as soon as he was able, he made his way to the side-room that he had watched the older man disappear in to.

"Mr Potter, wait!" called out Skeeter. "You still have your interview! With how _close_ you and Miss Delacour looked, my readers will _want_ to know!"

Harry fought the urge to roll his tired eyes. "Another time." he said, simply, before turning his back and going into the second room, where he met Garrick Ollivander once more.

"Thank you, Mr Potter," said Ollivander.

"Of course, Mr Ollivander," said Harry. "What is the problem?"

"In all my many years of wand-making, I have never seen something like it," said Ollivander, ominously. "It seems that you are no longer _suited_ to your wand."

"How is that possible?" asked Harry. "I thought you said that the wand chooses the wizard? How could a wand no longer _chose_ me?"

"I do not know," said Ollivander. "Ordinarily, wizards go their entire lives with just one wand. They and the wand become _one_ , as it were. The wand is as much of a part of them as their heart, or their mind. When I sold you that wand some three or so years ago, it was the _closest_ wand to you. Perhaps you and the wand are no longer compatible."

"But that shouldn't happen, should it?" asked Harry.

"Well, in all but your case, you'd be correct. The wand often knows the wizard _far_ better than the wizard could hope to know themselves. Wands suited to darker pursuits sold to those who will one day commit them," said Ollivander, his eyes lost in thought. "The only possible way I see for this to have happened is if something _monumental_ has occurred to you. Not the Tournament, nor anything like that. Something must have shifted _absolutely_ for your wand's correspondence to change."

Harry was struck for words. "O-oh."

"I do not know what to do for you," said Ollivander, his eyes wistful. "This may just be my years catching up to me; an error in judgement. But if it isn't, I do not know."

"Is there not another wand for me?" Harry asked, worried.

"If there is, I do not sell it," Ollivander told him, his voice light. "I know that for certain."

"O-oh."

"If your wand performs _most_ spells adequately, then it will not be such a pressing issue," said Ollivander. "Have you encountered any problems?"

"One or two, yes," Harry told him, his hands clenching slightly. "One of the more difficult Transfigurations I tried didn't work. Most charms don't seem to work properly."

"Well, with your wand, the charms problem can be expected," mused Ollivander. "But the Transfiguration; that really ought not to be happening. Truly, I don't know what to do. I'm sorry for not being of any more help."

"Thank you, anyway," said Harry, though he was a million miles away. He left the room, and the White Tower, ignoring the calls of Rita Skeeter all the way down.

* * *

Harry wandered the grounds for a while after the Wand-weighing ceremony.

In some ways, the knowledge that his wand was not _truly_ his was horrifying. The thought that he was without something that everyone else took so absolutely for granted; something so vital to a wizard's life was not true in his. It was just so _jarring_.

But, in other ways, he felt oddly relieved at the thought of his new revelation. It was freeing; the failings that he'd felt in the Northern Magics were not his fault. All of the work he'd done _was_ upon a broken foundation, and now that he knew exactly where the foundation was broken, he knew exactly where to build anew.

Harry had heard of Gregorivitch, a Russian wand-maker who was well-respected, though more for the power his wands could channel rather than the control they could enforce, which Harry did not think would be particularly suitable. Nonetheless, Harry resolved to send a letter to him.

There was the option of making his own wand, though very few took that step in recent times. It struck Harry that it might be suitable; that, ultimately, his issue was that the relationship he felt with his wand was lacking, and that, with the Northern Magics being as they were, Harry would need a strong relationship with his wand. His wand would need to be an extension of himself, and that simply was not the case then. Making one's own wand would solve that, but Harry, at that moment, did not have the time to learn.

Should the revelation have come at another time, Harry would've been thrilled. The very thought of being able to decide one's instrument of magical force; to create the focus through which he, himself, could create _magic_. Even then, the very thought excited him, breaking through the walls of irritation and worry that been built by the tournament. Indeed, it managed to break some of the bricks in that wall, but the wall still stood.

"Harry! What are you doing out here?" called Hermione Granger's voice from behind him. Dimly, Harry realised he was edging the periphery of the Forbidden Forest.

"Thinking," Harry said back. "What are you doing here?"

"I was researching the grasses that grew around Hogwarts for Herbology," Hermione explained, walking over. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Harry said, though he was very much not fine. Life was either overwhelming, or irritating, but it wasn't fine.

"You haven't been in lessons recently." Hermione said.

"I think I have a reasonable excuse."

"Yeah, about that," said Hermione, her voice ever-so-slightly worried. "You didn't put your name in, did you? Because my gut says no, but my gut also said that you liked me, so I'm not so sure I should listen to it."

Harry chuckled slightly. "No, I didn't." He told her.

"Are you scared?"

"Not _scared_ ," said Harry. "Angry."

Hermione smiled. "Who are you angry at?"

"Well, given that I can't move without being accosted by people, I'd say most of Hogwarts," said Harry. "To be honest, I'm a little bit mad at Dumbledore."

"Because he allowed it to happen?" asked Hermione, her brow furrowed. Harry nodded. "He didn't _mean_ for it to happen, Harry"

"Still, he's Dumbledore. He's supposed to do more than just let things happen," Harry said, inwardly relieved to able to talk to someone. "I know it's daft, but I expect _more_."

"It's not that daft. He _is_ the Headmaster," said Hermione. "There's just nothing you can do now but prepare - are you preparing well?"

"As well as I can," said Harry. "I just feel like I'm scaling a wall that's covered in grease."

"I'm sure you'll do well," Hermione said, comforting. "Plus, the schools won't allow anything too bad to happen."

"I hope so," Harry told her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"How much are people _really_ talking about me in Gryffindor?"

"Being totally honest?" asked Hermione. Harry nodded. "A lot. It's all people talk about these days. And, to be honest, you being a ghost these days isn't helping matters."

"Oh God," said Harry, irritable. "I just want to be left alone."

"I'm afraid that might not be an option for the foreseeable future," said Hermione, concern shining in her brown eyes. "You might have to face this one head on."

"I think I'm just going to ignore them until they go away. It's worked for me so far," said Harry, earning a grin from Hermione.

"And what are you going to do at the trial, when there's all those people watching?"

"I think whatever I'm facing will be a big enough distraction," said Harry sarcastically. "If not, I can dose myself with calming draught. Plus, I hear that if you drink enough you can't feel pain so that's a _double_ bonus."

"That's probably not a healthy coping mechanism, Harry."

"There's nothing _healthy_ about this tournament," said Harry, his eyes tired. "I'm just trying to live, never mind living well."

"That explains the _enormous_ bags under your eyes," said Hermione, pointing to his - no doubt - beleaguered face. "Do you have any idea how your name was put in?"

"An accident, most likely," said Harry. "I just don't know why. The Headmaster said that an illusion was placed over the Goblet, making whatever magic powers it to pull a fourth name in. I just don't know why my name needed to be called."

"Any idea who?" asked Hermione. Harry was rather relieved that he could talk to someone about it.

"No real idea," said Harry. "People have been saying Voldemort, but that's just absurd."

"Could it have been the Malfoys, after what you did?" asked Hermione.

"Dumbledore says no," Harry told her. "It doesn't really matter now though, does it? Even if I knew, it wouldn't change anything."

"Maybe," said Hermione. "But at least you'd know who to direct your anger toward, rather than to Dumbledore."

Harry nodded. "If I survive the next month, I'll worry about that then," he said. "I've got enough to worry about now."

Silence swallowed the conversation for a while as the pair decided to meander through the grounds. The November afternoon caused the lawns to form dew, and Harry could feel the grounds slipping beneath his shoes.

"Are we friends now?" asked Harry, after a while.

"Yeah," said Hermione, after a moment.

"How come?"

"Some things are just more important than others." said Hermione, and Harry smiled for what felt like the first time in a week.

* * *

Despite the conversation with Hermione, Harry could not shake the irritation that was furrowing its way into him; it felt like aggravation was making a home deep within his bones. And, as he often did when he found himself in such a state, he took to walking the halls of Hogwarts.

It was after curfew, and so Harry did not see the need to bring the Marauder's Map; champions were, of course, not subject to curfew so he wouldn't have to bother avoiding Filch.

He ought to have been sleeping, with the added work sapping him of his energy, and his time. Harry just couldn't find himself able to do so; the thoughts of his wand too present in his thoughts.

Harry pondered, briefly, if he simply was not meant to have a wand that corresponded perfectly. Perhaps _that_ was his fate; to not have the ideal instrument. He wished that weren't the case, but if it were, what could be do?

At times, he grew jealous of Dumbledore; the Headmaster had the unquestioned correspondence of two wands. So much so that his second wand was the one he used most. It wasn't unheard of for family members to inherit wands; perhaps that was true of anyone who the wizard loved.

Harry thought that perhaps one of his parent's wands would be suited to him, but quickly decided against it. It felt too much like robbing their memory.

In truth, Harry was just about to go back to Lupin's room - though these days it was more _his_ room - when he heard something in the distance. It sounded an _awful_ lot like footsteps.

It struck Harry as odd; he was in the southern wing of Hogwarts, and there were no prefects that usually patrolled the area. Harry considered the thought that he was simply imagining it; his tired mind creating its own amusement.

Then, he heard another set of footsteps, each louder than the last, and dearly wished he'd brought the Map. Harry suspected he knew this part of Hogwarts better than anyone, and to avoid the other people there, took off walking into the southern wing. He silently cast the silencing charm on his shoes, and it did not work perfectly but his footsteps were quieter.

He took off walking, meandering idiosyncratically through the hallways. The footsteps persisted, which meant only one thing; he was being followed.

With each left and right he took, the footsteps did not cease. Harry thought it was so strange; how could they know where he was going, even as he did not?

However, when Harry arrived at a dead end, he found out how. The tiredness that seeped into him had rendered him unable to worry; his heart did not pound despite the pursuit, and as he stopped before a corridor's end, he met his pursuer.

"Harry Potter," said the snide voice of Draco Malfoy, supported with every boy in their year _in_ Slytherin. "Did you enjoy our little chase?"

"What do you want Malfoy?" asked Harry, tiredly, fingering his wand.

"What I want, Harry, is for cheating little half-breeds like you to not exist," snapped Malfoy, his voice shrill. "How did you do it?"

"Funny thing, I was about to ask you the same question."

"You thought _I_ put your name in?" asked Draco, before laughing. "As if I would go to all that effort for something like _you_."

"And yet you chased me halfway through Hogwarts?" asked Harry, somewhat confused.

"Well, there's a historical aspect to that. Our ancestors acted similarly, didn't they?" asked Draco, to his cronies. "Us Purebloods chasing down the mudblood scum. _And_ , just like then, we caught you."

"Only you would be proud of ethnic cleansing, Malfoy," said Harry. "So what do you want?"

"Well, that's the interesting thing, isn't it?" asked Malfoy. Harry hated the intonation of his voice; of that, he was certain. "See, my friends and I are something of betting men, aren't we chaps?" Nods and mutters of agreement met his words. "So, imagine our delight when we hear _your_ name being called, half-breed."

"So what's your plan here?" asked Harry, inwardly amused at the echoing of the conversation he'd had with Bagman earlier. "Do you want me to throw the Tournament?"

Draco laughed, and his cronies copied him. "Oh _Merlin_ no! You half-breeds aren't to be _trusted_. I couldn't _possibly_ make an accord with you," said Malfoy, peering down his nose at Harry. "No, we Slytherins are of good stock, and of cunning. We couldn't _possibly_ allow something like that up to _you_. We only bet on _certainties_."

"So what are your intentions?" asked Harry, resigned. He fingered his wand, and a boy to Draco's right noticed.

" _Petrificus Totalus_. _"_ The boy cast, paralysing Harry in place with a wand action quicker than Harry had ever seen.

"Well, when you want a certainty, you'd be served well to make one for _yourself_. You can also consider this payback for your pathetic assault on me. So," said Malfoy, pointing his wand at Harry, as did everyone else. Harry was reminded of a firing squad. "Chaps, on three. One. Two. Three.

" _Stupefy_."

And, all at once, fifteen spells were sent toward Harry in a wave of magic, sending his body against the wall behind him, crumpled in a heap, his bones broken and contorted, his body twitching.

Malfoy and the Slytherins ran away then, leaving an unconscious Harry behind.

* * *

 **So, there it is.**

 **Let me know what you thought, I'd like to hear your opinions. Also, I've recently updated my other story 'The Conversations' which is H/HR, so if you're interested, take a look. It's still quite short.**

 **Thanks for your continued support, I appreciate it massively.**

 **Until next time.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Hi there.**

 **So, here's the next update - I hope you enjoy it.**

 **Feel free to review, and let me know what you thought.**

 **Thanks.**

* * *

 _All that Harry could see was_ _ **green**_ _._

 _His mind, his eyes, his thoughts, his wishes, his desires. All that he could see and everything that he ever would see._ _ **Green**_ _. Green unlike anything he'd ever seen before; green unlike anything that had ever existed before. A green that was more than colour._

 _His mind was a wasteland of green. Sightless, he meandered and walked through a field of green. No sights, no monuments, no path nor any goal. Simply a swath of brilliant green that filled his eyes, yet blinded him in equal turn._

 _He did not know if there was anything else; any other being among the world that filled his eyes. He doubted it. It seemed that this was his being; his essence, shown in the great cacophony of green that stood before, and after him._

 _Everything seemed so meaningless there; within the green. Action yielded no reaction. Thought yielded no theory. Nothing seemed to occur, and nothing would occur._

 _Great rises and falls could occur, and yet no one could tell the difference. Armies could fight and die within in the green, and still the green would swallow them whole._

 _And despite it all, Harry could still hear whispers among the endlessness of it all. A whisper of purpose, of dominion, of control. This was his domain; his kingdom. The whispers spoke to him. They told him that if he wished it so, this would be his to control. His to take, and his to keep._

 _Harry felt peace there. Strife, but peace within strife. He was finally alone, and despite his solitude robbing him of logic, and of purpose, he had solitude nonetheless._

 _And so Harry lied among the verdant, and allowed the green to swallow him whole. To become another shade in the pallet. But he knew that was not to be his purpose, and so he rose above. Up and above and beyond all that could've been expected. And suddenly, the world was green no more._

* * *

Harry blinked his eyes open, and he knew immediately that something was wrong.

To begin with, he realised that he was in the hospital wing; a fate that he'd never before encountered. Immediately, he understand why it was that his peers detested it so much. It was simply too sterile; it felt much the same as a hospital ward, and that felt horribly jarring within the magical world.

However, what was _far_ worse was that he couldn't really feel his body. He could control his movements somewhat, but it felt disconnected somehow. Discombobulated. Harry hadn't really felt like that before. Control was something, at least in his own actions, that he admired.

He looked to the nightstand for his glasses, and put them on, and that helped to centre himself. But nonetheless, he still felt skewed. As though his whole world had been moved a few inches to the right, and no-one had thought to tell him. He looked for his wand, but he couldn't find it.

Harry, in an attempt to clear his mind, attempted to retrace the steps that had brought him to where he was then. His mind supplied the memory of that evening; of the Slytherins attacking him. Of Malfoy hunting him as he, sleep-deprived and his mind elsewhere, allowed himself to be beaten. Harry was so irritated with himself; he should've been better. He should be able to outwit Malfoy, even as he had the advantage in numbers and didn't have the tournament looming large.

Before he had a chance to think it over fully, the doors of the wing opened and out came Madam Pomfrey. Harry had never really encountered her before; she seemed the matronly sort though.

"Mr Potter, you're awake," she said, a bustling walk as she strode toward him. "I had thought the monitoring spells were playing tricks on me."

"How long have I been asleep?" asked Harry, moving to sit up against his pillows, his body resisting the motion.

"You were in a _coma_ for two weeks," said Pomfrey, without pause. Had he not been so shocked, Harry would've been impressed at how forward she was. "According to the readings, you received upwards of ten stunning spells to your body. Had you been older, or I imagine had the people casting it been older, you'd have been out until Christmas."

"So what's the date?" asked Harry, dumbly.

"The 22nd of November," said Pomfrey. "If you're worried that you missed taking part in that blasted tournament, unfortunately you're mistaken."

"22nd?"

"Yes, Mr Potter, the 22nd," repeated Pomfrey. "I had hoped the spell damage hadn't struck you dumb, but it seems I was wrong."

Harry almost broke down right then. He had _two days_ until the first task!

How could he possibly compete now? Everyone else had years of experience over him, and now _weeks_ of preparation time too. He had a wand that wasn't working properly, and he was just coming out of a _coma_. There was no _possible_ way he could even perform remotely well now.

He wondered then what on earth he had ever done to deserve the world taking such an enormous shit on him and his life. What on earth could possibly have war rented such treatment? Was he the literal grim reaper in a past life? Was he a serial killer? Was he Jack the Ripper?

Because nothing else seemed to make any sense. No-one else had to deal with this kind of shit. No-one else grew up on orphan, then was raised by a family that despised him, then was gifted such social anxiety that he couldn't possibly begin to make friends with his peers. Then to top it off, just as he was starting to enjoy his life, _just_ as he found someone else in the world that didn't make everything pointless and suffocating, it was ripped away from him in a tournament that was going to kill him.

And now the tournament was all the more likely to kill him because of Draco _fucking_ Malfoy. If he survived the Triwizard Tournament, he was going to repay what the Malfoy's had done to him in full. He was going to make that blond twat's life hell. He was going to rip his world into scraps and burn the scraps. He was going to ensure that when all was said and done, the Malfoy family knew _pain_.

"Mr Potter?" questioned Pomfrey. "You were staring into space. Are you okay? I've treated the concussion you've received so you ought not to be."

Harry shook his head groggily. "No, it's fine," he said. "What were you saying?"

"I was just mentioning that without the Headmaster finding you, you may have been facing permanent damage," said Pomfrey. "With stunning spells, a lot of the damage is reversible if the patient is treated quickly."

"So, Professor Dumbledore brought me here?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, you'd have thought the world was caving in with all the commotion," said Pomfrey. "He ran in here in the middle of the night, his eyes wild. He had you over his shoulder; he somehow forgot he even had magic."

Harry was stunned. He knew that Dumbledore cared for him, and to know that without him, he'd likely be a cripple floored him. Harry doubted that he could ever truly be grateful enough for what the Headmaster had done for him.

"Anyway," continued Pomfrey. "In any normal circumstance, I'd recommend avoiding any strenuous exercise for about a month or so, but I know in your case that's going to be impossible. So all I'll say is this. When you were admitted, you had: a leg broken in four places, a broken arm, a shattered kneecap and a lung caved in. Now, I've managed to right all of that fully, but even _with_ magic, the body remembers. You're going to have some discomfort and some weakness for a few days; maybe even a few weeks. Just take that into account when you go off taming wildcats or whatever your task is."

"Thank you, Madam Pomfrey." said Harry, adding that to enormous list of things life decided to throw in his face.

"One last thing," said Pomfrey. "You've had a visitor that kept coming here all the time; right nuisance she was. Anyway, I've told her you're awake and she's on her way."

And, as though by magic itself, the doors of the Hospital Wing swung open violently, revealing Nymphadora Tonks.

"Harry! You're awake!" Tonks exclaimed, running through the room to his bed. She threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly, and though it hurt rather a lot, it felt far too nice to stop. "Are you alright?"

"Well, I got hit with like fifteen stunners, so not really," said Harry, his chin rested on the top of her head. "Everything's kinda sore."

"Well, you got hit with _fifteen_ stunners," said Tonks. "You should probably try and avoid that sort of thing in the future. It's bad for you."

"I'll think about it," said Harry, smirking into her hair.

Tonks moved away from his chest and sat down on the chair next to his bed. She looked into his eyes, hers going through browns and blues and greens. She looked…pensive. Harry hated it.

"I was scared, Harry," Tonks said, her voice soft. Her eyes never left his. Not once. "When I heard that you'd been hospitalised, I was so so scared. I just don't know what I'd do without you, and I couldn't handle not seeing you and talking with you. You make me happy, and I missed that; these past few weeks have been hell."

"Well, I'm alright now," said Harry, his voice equally soft. "I'm going to be okay."

"I'm still scared," said Tonks, an emotion he couldn't place in her eyes. "You've got the first task in two days, and you've not prepared properly. I just really want you to be okay, because I don't know what I'd do without you. I wouldn't be able to cope."

"Then I will be okay," Harry promised. "The last thing I ever want is to make you sad."

"Can you promise?" asked Tonks, hope forming in her big, green eyes.

"I promise," said Harry, and he meant it. He'd stop at nothing to make her happy. He wasn't certain of much, but he knew that. "Besides, there's not much else the world can throw at me, is there? I think I've hit rock bottom."

"I wouldn't ask the world if there's anyway it can make your life worse," said Tonks, a half-smile on her face. "Knowing your luck, you'll probably end up being a distant relation to the Malfoys or something."

Harry's eyes flashed in anger. "I fucking hope not," he said. "I'd hate to commit fratricide."

"He did this?" asked Tonks, a dawning rage on her face.

"Him and half of Slytherin did, yeah," explained Harry.

"I'll _kill_ him." said Tonks, near-foaming at the mouth in her anger.

"No you won't," said Harry. "There's a line, and you're behind me."

"You know I can get him prosecuted for this?" Tonks proposed. "It's most of what I've been doing while you were out of it; working on your case - it was either that or punch walls. Because of his name, I can't get any prison time to stick to him, but I can rid him of a lot of his dad's wealth. Probably make sure he never works in the Ministry, too."

"Do it," Harry said, immediately. "I want his life ruined. I don't care anymore; I just want to see him suffer."

"Perfect," said Tonks, an almost feral smile on her face. "I can't wait to see his face when it happens. I bet he's a crier."

"Did you get anywhere seeing if my name being drawn was legal or not?" Harry asked, suddenly remembering.

"I did, yeah," said Tonks, the wind taken from her sails somewhat. "There was an investigation on your involvement. Dumbledore provided a testimony saying you didn't put your name in, so you're clear. There's been legislation drawn up banning the use of the Goblet ever again."

"I suppose that's good," said Harry. "At least there's some good coming out of all this."

"It's still not enough, Harry," said Tonks, taking a hold of his hand. "You're being screwed here, and it's not even by _me_."

"I'm pretty sure that'd kill me right now," said Harry, smiling a little as he saw Tonks' cheeks redden. It was nice that it wasn't him being embarrassed then. "But it's not important. Everyone will eventually get their just desserts; it'll just take time."

"Are you just leaving it all up to karma?"

"Oh God no," said Harry. "I'm going to be a hell of a lot more pro-active than that. I've had enough of letting things happen _to_ me, rather than doing them myself. It's time for that to change."

"I like it," said Tonks, that angry grin returning to her pretty face. "Who are you going after first? After Malfoy, of course."

"Snape," said Harry, his jaw clenching. "I've been distracted with the tournament, but his time is coming up soon. When I get through that first task, he's my next one."

"I like this anger, Harry. You should be full of vengeance more often." Said Tonks, teasing, her thumb rubbing the back of his hand.

"I'll try my best," said Harry, smiling back. "Speaking of; do you know how to persecute him for legilimency?"

"I do," said Tonks, nodding. "I've basically been plotting our retaliation while you were asleep. It's extremely cathartic," Tonks grinned. Harry thought vengeance was a good look on Tonks, too. "So, in order for Snape to be prosecuted and for the charges to stick, we need multiple witnesses. _And_ you need an expert to confirm the presence of tampering magic in the brain."

"Do you know any 'experts'?" asked Harry.

"I do actually," said Tonks, practically beaming at Harry. She looked incredibly proud of herself; Harry thought she was adorable. "My _mum_."

"Your mum's a master of the mind arts?" asked Harry, hope colouring his voice.

"That she is," said Tonks, truly beaming now. "Now, I don't know if she's going to be seen as biased or not because it's my case, but if she is, she promised that the person she apprenticed under would be more than willing to help."

"Perfect," said Harry. "I can't wait to be rid of him. He's ruined enough of my life already."

Tonks squeezed his hand.

They sat there for a while, the pair of them holding hands. Dimly, Harry realised he was still rather tired, despite having slept for a fortnight. He thought that it might perhaps be the effects of the potions he was being administered. A quick glance at the window told Harry it was the middle of the night; darkness being the only thing he could see.

"Tonks?"

"Yeah?"

"Did Madam Pomfrey wake you up to tell you I was awake?" asked Harry, out of curiosity.

"Yeah, she did," said Tonks. "Though she wasn't interrupting anything."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, squeezing her hand. Tonks averted her eyes.

"I haven't really been able to sleep since you got put in a coma," said Tonks, softly, sadly. "I just couldn't stop worrying about you. And even if I did get to sleep, I'd get horrible nightmares."

"About what?"

"About _you_ ," said Tonks, misty-eyed. "All I'd ever see is your body all crumpled and I'd just be standing there, helpless, completely unable to help. It was horrible."

"Well that doesn't have to happen anymore," said Harry, lacing his finger through hers. "I'm safe, and I'm okay, and you _have_ been helping. We're both alright. We're both going to be alright."

"Thank you, Harry." Tonks, a beautiful smile on her face, even as her eyes were damp with the tears that threatened to fall.

"Do you want to try and get some sleep now?" asked Harry. "There's about fifty free beds in here for you to choose from."

"This is going to sound daft, but would you mind just… _holding me_?" Tonks asked, in a voice so quiet that Harry barely recognised it as hers. "I've just been sat in here for so long, watching you sleep. I'd be worried to let you leave my sight, even for a second."

"Of course." said Harry, his green eyes bright as he smiled kindly.

Tonks got on the bed, kicking off her shoes and taking off her jacket, forcing Harry to budge slightly to the edge, but the pair of them were forced to nearly lie on top of one another as the bed was hardly big enough for both of them. Neither of them cared, though.

As she got in, Tonks laced their legs in-between one another, so that Harry laid flat on his back, with Tonks' head resting on his chest. Harry wrapped an arm around her waist; she felt thin, as though she hadn't been eating properly. It worried him.

Harry pressed a kiss to her temple. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.

Harry could feel her smile against his chest. "I am now," Tonks said. "And shouldn't it be me asking you that?"

Harry smiled. "I'm the one that takes care of you, remember?"

"Then take care of me," said Tonks. "Let me use your chest as a pillow. We can talk tomorrow."

"Night, Tonks."

"G'night, Harry."

* * *

"I was not aware that this was a duty of the Auror force."

Harry opened his eyes, this time sunlight flooding his vision. He realised first that he had forgotten to take off his glasses before he slept last night.

The second thing he noticed was that Albus Dumbledore was standing over him and Tonks, his robes more blindingly bright than the sun could ever hope to be. He didn't seem displeased at finding the pair of them as they were; if anything, he appeared amused.

"S-sorry, Headmaster," said Tonks, rushing out of bed, embarrassment etched into her face. "It won't happen again."

"I'd hope not," said the Headmaster. "You nearly gave poor Poppy a heart attack when she saw you like that."

"Sorry," Harry said, his eyes not meeting the Headmaster's.

"It's quite alright, Harry," said Dumbledore. "There are few things that shock a man of my age," Dumbledore giving a grandfatherly smile. It just made things all the worse. "Now, I do not wish to interrupt anything, but would it be okay with the pair of you if I were to talk to Harry alone?"

"Of course," said Tonks immediately, without even a question in her mind. She nearly ran out of the room; embarrassment fueling her steps.

"Harry, I simply wished to apologise for yet another grievance you've suffered under my watch," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes earnest as they met Harry's. "I ought to be better at protecting you, and yet again I've failed."

"You can't be in every place at once, Headmaster," said Harry. "I think Malfoy is more to blame than you are."

"So it was Draco that did it?" Dumbledore asked calmly. Harry nodded. Dumbledore sighed. "It is just as I feared then. After I brought you here, I checked the area that I found you in for any known magic. I found resonance of _every_ boy in Slytherin in your year."

"They cornered me," said Harry. "Then they all fired a stunning spell at me. All fifteen of them. I don't know if they all hit - I was out of it before then - but I know they all tried."

"Well that settles it," said Dumbledore. "I've set detentions for every one of them, every day, ever since you were admitted here, having not had your word as proof."

"I know they were all working on behalf of Malfoy," Harry told Dumbledore, desperate to explain. "I certainly don't think they were innocent, but I know they were being pressured into it by him."

"So Harry, what would you have me do?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry thought on it for a moment. He had a half a mind to tell the Headmaster to expel Malfoy, just to see the look on his face. But Harry wanted his own revenge more. Expulsion would be the easy way out. Malfoy could go to Durmstrang and immerse himself in the Dark Arts without resistance. He'd probably already made fast friends with half the students that were visiting.

With Draco here, at Hogwarts, Harry could destroy him. And that's what he deserved.

"I think you should not allow them to go to Hogsmeade ever again. I think you should give them detentions for every weekend for the rest of the year. And I think you should ban them from using magic in the castle for a month. I think that seems fair to me."

"Consider it done," said Dumbledore, nodding to Harry.

Harry wondered why the Headmaster was so accepting of the punishment. Normally, he was all in favour of light punishment and guilt-tripping them into submission. So why would that change?

"Now Harry," began Dumbledore, and Harry knew then that whatever it spelled couldn't be good. "I want to talk to you about the main reason I'm here to speak to you."

"The _main_ reason, Professor?"

"Yes, and I fear there isn't any easy way to say this," said Dumbledore, a troubled look on his face, a tired slouch in his shoulders. He looked every second of his age then. "During the attack on you, there was…damage to your wand. As you fell, it appears you fell onto your wand and severed it in two. I have given the pieces to Master Ollivander, but I fear it is inconsolable. Your wand was broken."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was gaping openly at the Headmaster.

A numb sort of shock fell over him. What was he going to do?

How could this be happening to him? How, after _everything_ else that was happening, did the world allow yet _another_ thing to happen? Why was he the one that must suffer so?

Harry didn't think he deserved it. He didn't deserve being two days away from the most dangerous thing to ever happen to him without his wand. None of the other champions had to go through that. They didn't have to be hospitalised, and be without a wand.

Harry, after all of these years, had seemed to reach his breaking point. And he was about to _break_.

"However," Dumbledore quickly interjected. "I feel I may have a solution to that."

"What?" Harry near-barked in anger.

"When we spoke at Halloween, you mentioned that I had been using a 'borrowed wand'. That I was simply allowing myself a crutch so that I did not let go of Gellert. You were right," Dumbledore said, retrieving the wand from its place and holding it in both of his hands. Harry had to admit that, even through his rage, he couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of its design. It was beautiful. "This wand was born in bloodshed. Baptised in bloodshed. Even I myself earned it in bloodshed. And it is my wish that I give this to you, so as to break the cycle of brutality that for so long has plagued it."

And then, Dumbledore handed over the beautiful wand, his hands still and calm, over to Harry.

Immediately, Harry felt a glorious warmth spread through him. He'd never felt anything like it. It was as though happiness was spreading through him. Pure euphoria, running through his bloodstream, from the moment his hands touched its wood. Harry closed his eyes to savor the absolute, unadulterated _joy_ that he felt.

And, as he opened his eyes, he watched as golden sparks flew from its tip.

Harry looked up to Dumbledore, his anger forgotten. He knew then that this was _his_ wand. This was the wand he needed; the wand that he matched perfectly with. Dumbledore wore an easy smile; as though he'd been proved right.

"It appears that the fates are not always so devious, Harry," said Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling. "The wand is no longer mine, and it seems it never truly was. It's yours."

Harry smiled. And then, wordlessly, he cast the _repairing_ charm on his watch. He'd tried to do it for years with his old wand having almost no success. But now, with a flick of his true wand, the strap's fraying edges became un-frayed, and the crack that severed the face disappeared, leaving clear glass behind.

"Thank you, Albus." Harry said, his voice full of gratitude.

"It is what you deserve, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I can also inform you of the fact that you are now free to leave the infirmary. I imagine there's some preparation you might wish to do before the first task, so I shall leave you be."

* * *

"So Harry, given you're in Triwizard Tournament, and the first task is in two days, how come you're here with me? You know, rather than frantically reading books that might actually help," Tonks asked him. The pair of them were sitting on the edge of the Great Lake, Harry having once again conjured them a blanket, this time as a test of his new wand. It was odd, Harry thought. Even Transfigurations came better; it was as though his exact thought became reality, every time he used it.

"Well, I was actually thinking about this a fair bit," said Harry, leaning onto his right side as his left was still quite sore. As he walked out of the infirmary, he had thought he may have needed a cane, but thankfully it wasn't the case. "And I don't think there's anything I'm going to learn in the next two days that I don't already know. I'm going into the task not knowing what I'll be facing and so there's not a lot I can do. I'd rather just enjoy my time now, rather than overwork myself."

"I hope you're right," said Tonks. "You know there's a rumour going around; that the other champions know what the first task is."

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Harry. "I can bet that Fleur would do anything to win, and Viktor's a competitor so he'd be looking for an edge. I doubt Cedric does though; seems the sort to value fairness."

"Well _exactly_ ," said Tonks, nodding her head. "He might've heard that everyone else already knew and decided that he may as well be even. I've seen him hanging around a lot of with Hagrid, too, and you said that the first task usually involves magical creatures."

"So what are you saying?" asked Harry.

"I'm not saying anything," said Tonks, innocently. "All I'll say is this. If cheating saves your life; cheat."

"It's just not worth it," refuted Harry. "If I get caught, I'll be in breach of a magically binding contract. And if Barty Crouch finds out I did that, he's within his rights to take away my magic."

"If you're sure," said Tonks, skeptical. "It's just - you've gone through enough. _This_ should at least not be as _impossibly_ hard as everything else that's ever happened to you."

"Well, the harder something is, the more satisfaction you get when it's finished." Harry said, smiling at Tonks.

"You're only saying that because you've never had anything easy," Tonks said, winking. It was odd, Harry thought, that for all the control she had over her body, she couldn't wink properly. Every time she did her other eye closed as well.

It was so absolutely adorable and so utterly _Tonks_ that it made Harry's heart skip a beat every time it happened.

"I hope I do soon," said Harry, honestly. "I'm very tired of my life being an uphill struggle."

"I hope you do too," said Tonks, reaching over to hold his arm. "But all that shit's made you stronger. I doubt anyone else could handle everything you've been through."

"I hope you're right." said Harry.

"And I hope you get through this tournament whole." said Tonks, smiling prettily. Harry returned the smile.

Harry drew his wand out, and began drawing shapes in the air in smoke, trying to work out exactly where the boundaries were. He'd found that, sometimes, he'd used poor technique with his old wand in order to force spells to come out, and that needed to be corrected now that he had a wand that was perfectly responsive.

"So, how's the new wand?" asked Tonks, after a while. "You know, after seeing the damage you could do to that room of yours with your old wand, I don't think the castle will stand up with this new one."

Harry smiled. "I love it," he said. "It just feels right."

"Then I suppose that's something easy," said Tonks, smiling. "Ignoring the fact that everyone else had the 'wand thing' easy for as long as they've been a wizard, you've finally got something easy."

"Better late than never," said Harry, admiring the detailing on his wand. Along its length, there ran bunches of elderberries etched into the wood. Harry had never seen anything like that before. Truly, the wand was a blessing. "I don't think I'm going to miss not being able to do the _water charm_ because it either came out as steam, or flooded the room I was in."

"What did you do in your end of year Charms exams, then?" asked Tonks, leaning forward.

"I had to conjure salt-water, then vanish the salt," said Harry, exasperation colouring his voice still. "It was so much harder, and I didn't get any credit doing it that way."

"Wow, nothing in your life is _ever_ easy, is it?" Asked Tonks, laughing.

Except spending time with you, Harry thought, but dared not say.

"It made me better at magic, anyway," explained Harry. "Because Charms was just a mess for me, I'd have to find Transfigurations that I could pass off as Charms. By the end of my second year, I basically knew every Transfiguration that Hogwarts taught out of necessity."

"Sounds exhausting," said Tonks. "By the end of second year, I'd learned that I was always going to be too uncoordinated to play Quidditch. And that Snape hated it when I made my hair red in his class. The fact that I did it every lesson after finding out probably made him hate me."

Harry patted her hand consolingly. "He probably hated you because he's an arsehole that can't feel joy unless it's caused by hurting others, not because of that," he said.

Tonks smiled. "I wonder what a good day would be to him? Like, what would be a day that'd make him actually smile?"

"The dark arts being made legal and him being given free reign to kill anyone that disagrees with him," said Harry.

"Or Potions actually being important," said Tonks. "You know how you need an Exceeds Expectations in Potions to get into the Aurors? I don't know why. There isn't a poison that can't be detected, and healers take care of healing potions. It doesn't make any sense."

"Polyjuice?" asked Harry.

"Of course!" Tonks exclaimed. "That makes sense. I mean, I wouldn't know, _obviously_ , but at least that's squared away."

Harry smiled.

"Did I miss anything important while I was asleep?" Harry asked, out of the blue.

"Oh yeah, I probably should've told you," Tonks began, running a hand through her hair. Today there was an actual wind that blew her hair around; in nature, she looked all the more beautiful. "You know that Fleur Delacour?" Harry nodded. "Well, after that picture of the four of you champions was published, there's been speculation about you two being a couple. I believe you even won Witch Weekly prettiest couple of the week."

Harry burst out laughing.

"That's really funny," he said, still laughing to himself. "But she hates me, and I'm pretty sure she said at one point that if I died in this tournament, she'd dance on my grave."

"You should get buried at sea, so the bitch drowns." Tonks retorted, genuine anger in her eyes.

Harry burst out laughing again.

"Don't they usually pair Veelas with the handsome, famous types though?" Harry asked, as he settled down.

"Well, you're in the Triwizard Tournament, so you're pretty famous nowadays. And as for the handsome thing, well," Tonks said, gesturing to his face. "You're not a pain to look at."

"I'm almost touched, Dora," said Harry, but he was lying. He was very touched. He doubted he'd ever been more touched.

"Don't call me Nym -Oh! Sorry, reflex," said Tonks, apologetic. "You know what; I don't mind Dora. I've had worse."

"Just your name's worse, _Dora_ ," said Harry, trying out and seeing how it felt. He quite liked it. "Of course you've had worse."

"Loads of people in my first year thought it was funny to call me Nym-rod," said Tonks, pouting. "It wasn't funny."

"Eleven and twelve-year-olds aren't known for their wit." reasoned Harry.

"I meant my first year in the Aurors." said Tonks, pouting even more.

"Aurors called you that? As in adults?" Harry asked. "As in the one's who's job it is to protect us?"

"Yep."

"Well, we're all doomed."

* * *

Before long, Tonks had to go back to the Auror office, as she'd missed a lot of hours while she was with him as he slept, and she had to make up for it.

That's how Harry found himself in the library, reading through some fairly rudimentary Charms theory. He'd avoided most research in the subject due to a general lack of aptitude, but now that magic itself wasn't fighting his use of it, the subject became an awful lot more interesting all of a sudden.

However, before he could truly sink his teeth into the subject, he felt a tap on his shoulder which turned out to come from Neville Longbottom.

"Hey mate," he greeted, taking the seat from Harry. "How have you been?"

"I appreciate the struggle that you go through an awful lot more now." Harry explained.

Neville laughed. "Yeah, it's not always fun," he said. "Most of the time it's the opposite. You know, I'm quite enjoying this quiet year so far. I just wish it didn't come at your expense."

"Don't worry, you'll get the reigns soon enough," Harry said. "How do you deal with it?"

"I don't," Neville explained, and Harry laughed. "You laugh, but I genuinely have no idea. I guess it all sort of happened by necessity, rather than by any plan. I don't really enjoy having to do the things I do, but I know if I don't, no-one else will. I just happen to be in the right place at the right time a lot."

That gave Harry pause. When the Headmaster had ever spoken about Neville, he'd always made it sound as though he was jumping at the chance to be the hero. This certainly painted a different story.

He'd have to think on it.

"So what are you doing to enjoy your new-found freedom?" Harry asked, changing the subject.

"Quidditch, mostly," Neville laughed. "Just spending my free time not worrying about the latest plot _Voldemort_ \- oh! You don't flinch, nice - has in store."

"I suppose that falls to me now." Harry mused.

"What, do you think it's Voldemort that put your name in?" Neville asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Dumbledore certainly seems to think so," Harry explained. "And I don't think anyone else could've."

"Last time I checked, he was ethereal, and you need a body to throw paper into Goblets," Neville said. "He probably had someone do it for him. Like, you know Quirrell in first year?" Harry nodded. "Voldemort's pawn."

Harry took a moment to swallow that information; it was hardly a surprise, though.

"I wonder who though." he pondered.

"No idea," said Neville. "There's so many people coming from the other schools that he could've latched on to, it's impossible to just narrow it down. There's just too many unknowns."

"Guess I'll have to keep my eyes peeled."

"Keep your head on a swivel," Neville instructed, nodding. "That advice follows on to the task, too. I read up a little bit on the tournament when I thought I might be the one in it, and it's not a party. Be careful."

Harry nodded. "I will."

Neville stood up. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it," he said. "And with the Voldemort thing - if you're genuinely afraid that you're being chased by him, talk to the Dogfather. He's useful for that sort of thing; you know he's the one that gave me my cloak."

"Thanks, Neville," Harry said. "I might just do that."

"Have a good one, Harry." Neville said, leaving the library, gently opening and closing the doors in the way that Madam Pince liked. The way that made no noise.

"You too, Neville." Harry said, though he was speaking to himself.

* * *

Harry waited until it was pitch black outside before he enacted his first piece of revenge.

He'd studied the Marauder's Map for a while, and he noticed quite a few things about Draco Malfoy. The biggest takeaway, however, was that he was never alone. Never without company. At all times, he was accompanied by two, three, four or sometimes even five different people. There simply too much risk and chance involved when more than two people were firing spells at one another for anyone to want to challenge Malfoy openly. _That_ was his biggest strength, as Harry found out a fortnight ago.

The only downside to his plan, however, was that for most of the time, he was bracketed by Crabbe and Goyle. Physically imposing, yes, but in any way astute? Absolutely not.

All Harry would have to do to get the drop on Malfoy was to simply pick a time when he was with just the two of them, and in a place where there would be few, if any, witnesses.

The corridors after darkness had fallen was, therefore, a perfect recipe.

This time, with his new wand, Harry's silencing charm worked to perfection on his clothes. It worked in a way that defied magical theory. He was so soundless as he moved, in fact, that he felt odd. He felt as though he were emitting negative decibels.

Tonks, before she left to go to work, had kindly taught him some of the more basic, Auror stealth charms. Though not perfect at them by any means, Harry knew that one would still have to look closely at him to track his movements. That would take intelligence.

Crabbe and Goyle did not have any intelligence.

So, falling into the shadows of a corridor near the Slytherin dorms, Harry watched as the three of them rounded the corner he had camped in. Draco first, his pride allowing nothing less, followed by his bodyguards. And, at the moment that Draco had moved beyond the corner that separated the two corridors, but the other two had not, Harry struck.

A silently cast Petrifying curse held the two of them in stasis, standing just at the place so that Draco couldn't see them from the corridor he was in. Quickly, and as quietly as he could, Harry cast the camouflage charms he'd been using on the pair of them; with any luck, Draco wouldn't see them until it was too late.

The final part of his plan fell into his place due to a facet of Malfoy's relationship with the pair of them. They never talked. Not once. Draco never interacted with the pair of them unless it was required. And so, it would take a while before noticed their absence.

Harry quietly trailed behind him then. Malfoy made it only ten paces or so before noticed the lack of footsteps other than his own, but it was enough.

Draco turned on the spot, searching for his constant companions, but finding them totally missing. Harry could see the beginnings of fear grow in his eyes. This was his chance.

Quietly, he dispelled the charms rendering him hidden. Then, _then_ , was fear in Malfoy's eyes. A sudden burst of terror built on his face.

"Hi Malfoy," Harry said. "Remember me."

Draco tried to run; he turned his back on Harry, beginning to sprint down the hall, abandoning his peers. Mistake.

Harry pointed his wand at the floor ahead of Malfoy, and cast. " _Glacius._ " He intoned, causing ice to form on the ground beneath Malfoy's feet, sending him crashing to the ground.

"Why did you run, Malfoy?" Harry asked, walking him down as he scrambled to his feet, only to fall back to the ground. "You're a pureblood. Aren't purebloods supposed to be better than us lowly half-bloods? Then why do you run!"

Malfoy turned on the spot, his balance shaky, and pointed his wand at Harry. Harry was close enough to slap it out of his hands, and did so, sending the piece of wood clattering to the ground. Malfoy reached his hand, trying to pick up his wand blindly, his eyes not leaving Harry. Harry stamped on his hand, holding it in place, and Malfoy cried out in pain.

"You know, Malfoy, you broke my wand," said Harry. "I have every right to snap yours under my boot. And I could, you know. It wouldn't take much." Harry raised his other foot, as though to do just do that, but changed his target at the last moment, and stood on the trapped arm with his other foot too, crushing his arm with both legs. "But I won't. Because I'm not going to sink to your level."

Harry squat in place, so that he brought his face closer to Malfoys. He looked in Draco's eyes, and all he could see was fear.

"You know, I could've gotten you expelled," Harry said, almost conversationally. "Dumbledore offered it to me. But I said no. Do you know why?"

Malfoy didn't respond.

"Do you?" Harry repeated. "Answer me!"

"No!" Draco yelped, in fear.

"Thank you," said Harry, mock-kindly. "I didn't get you expelled because it was too _easy_. There's almost no punishment to it. What'd happen is you'd spend the rest of the year at home with your Mummy, pampered and preened, and then you'd go to Durmstrang and pick up right where you left off. But I can't have that."

Harry clasped hold of Draco's throat. "I want you _here_ , Malfoy, at Hogwarts. Under my nose. I want you right where I can see you at all times. And I do see you at _all time_ s," Harry said, squeezing every so gently on Malfoy's trachea. "By the time I'm finished with you, you're not going to sneeze in the wrong direction. And that begins tonight."

Quick as a flash, Harry cast another Petrification curse, this time on Malfoy, and he was too terrified to react. Harry levitated him, walking the pair of them into a nearby classroom. By appearances, it looked to be a Muggle Studies classroom. Good.

Harry locked the door behind them seven different ways. _No-one_ was getting in or out of that classroom unless Harry said so. He stopped the levitation charm, letting Draco fall to the floor in a heap, and then he threw his wand at him, and cast a silencing charm over the room.

He was rather glad he could cast charms now. They came in useful.

"Now, Draco, unlike you I believe that combat should be fair," Harry said. "So, I'm going to beat the shit out of you, but I don't think it'd be fair to not allow you at least a chance to defend yourself."

Draco scrambled to get his wand, casting as quickly as he could. " _Falx_ ," he said, setting a purple jet of magic toward Harry, though he dipped his head and avoided it entirely. He followed it with a serious of stunning charms, which Harry raised a shield to block easily.

"That was a dark cutting charm. It _maims_ , Malfoy," said Harry. "But if that's how you wish to do this, let's do it."

"Fuck off, Potter."

Harry vanished the floorboards Malfoy stood on, forcing his aim off and his next barrage went wide of Harry. Then, he transfigured the room's desk into chains, and with a wave of his wand sent them wrapping around Malfoy, trapping his arms against his body, unable to retaliate.

"I forfeit!" Draco near-squeaked out, shaking in place. "I forfeit!"

"Ah but Draco. There is no forfeit," said Harry, grinning a little at him. "You lost that ability when you put me in a coma for a fortnight."

Harry slowly walked Draco down as he squirmed, wanting to run but knowing he couldn't.

"For four years, you've bullied and abused others at Hogwarts. You've made muggleborn's lives a living hell. You've made everyone that didn't fit into what you thought was right feel small, and worthless, and marginalised. But today, that stops," continued Harry, speaking with to nose to nose. "I'm not stupid. I know that by now, there's no way that the soft sell is going to work with you. Harsh words aren't the way. So maybe something else might be."

Harry dispelled the chains, taking Malfoy's wand from his hand before he could even think to react, and sent him into the far wall with his own. He cast a sticking charm to keep him there.

Harry had a plan. But first, he needed to get some of the anger that was fit to burst out. So he swung at Draco, punching him square on the jaw, and he enjoyed watching Draco cry out as it happened. And then he did it again.

After he felt sufficiently calm, he sent a light severing charm into Draco's chest, cutting away at his uniform so that his chest was bare to him.

"I've given your punishment some thought, and I think I've come up with a fair and reasonable alternative," Harry said. "Since you insist on acting like a junior Death Eater, I've decided I'm going to treat you like one. And because you're desperate to get the brand of the Dark Mark, I'll give you a brand of my own."

Harry whispered a charm, causing the tip of his wand to glow red, desperately hot to the touch. Without a second thought, he pressed the burning hot tip of his wand into Malfoy's chest, and began writing.

And, after he was done, Draco had passed out from the pain, and his chest read:

 _Death Eater In Training:_

 _I am racist scum_

" _Rennervate_ ," Harry cast, and Draco woke up instantly, and began to scream in pain. Harry silenced him with a wave of his wand. "So, I've placed a charm on that piece of art on your chest so that it lasts exactly fourteen days. Fair's fair."

Harry silently cast a repairing charm at Malfoy's clothes, covering up the brand.

"Now, I think that's a fairly good incentive to never do anything like what you did to me, or have been doing to the people you've decided to attack ever again, isn't it?" Harry asked, rhetorically. "However, if you still feel the need to be a racist twat, things are only going to get worse." Harry pressed on Malfoy's shirt, just where his punishment was, and he watched as Draco winced with his entire body, desperate to feel anything other than the horrendous pain he felt then. "Much, much worse. Understand?"

Draco nodded frantically, and Harry smiled at him. "Good. I'm glad things are clear," he said. "Well, I'm going to leave you to it. The sticking charm will fade in about an hour, so you have until then to think about your choices up to now. Enjoy that. I'll leave a bottle of burn salve with your goons."

With that, Harry unlocked the door so that he could leave the classroom. He cast a locking charm, so that the door could only be opened from the inside, and walked back to Professor Lupin's old office, and went to sleep. He didn't know if what he'd done was good, or deserved, or if he'd be able to look back on what he did and feel proud, or at the very least not ashamed, but Harry knew one thing.

It felt right.

* * *

 **So, there it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Until next time.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hi all.**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter; I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Let me know what you thought of it and what you'd like to see in the future.**

 **Also, side note: my birthday is November 24th. It was always pleasant reading the books and finding out the first task happened that day.**

 **Anyway.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

November 24th began peacefully. There wasn't a cloud on the horizon, no rain falling and very little wind clattered against Harry's window. Had it been any other day, Harry may have been moved by the peace shown in the Scottish wilds.

But on that day, all it felt like was the calm before the storm.

It was with an air of forced calm that Harry began his day. Everything he did felt unspeakably, painstakingly deliberate; as though he was only a passenger in his body. From waking, to washing (using a conjured shower) to dressing - everything felt as though it was being done from a distance.

Dumbledore had mentioned, off-handedly, that he would be sent for by someone at around midday for the task, and that he was to be in his room for then. However, the time between waking and then felt far too long to be alone with one's thoughts on a day like that. Seconds felt like years; the time between the ticks of his watch seemed to stretch out for eternity.

And there really was nothing for it. There was nothing he could do; no last minute preparation that he needed to perform. The work had all been done, and now was the time to wait. It seemed like a task in itself; to suffer through the torture of waiting. Of being so powerless in the face of destiny, awaiting the future with nothing else to do.

He found himself fidgeting in place; his hands clambering for something to do. He toyed with his wand, feeling the detailing of the elderberries that were carved in there.

Harry wondered how the other three were handling the waiting. Were they spending time with their loved ones, saying things they wished they'd said? Or were they confident enough to not have to; assured that no harm would come to them. Were they alone, or were they with their friends, allowing the company to soak up the nerves they must've been feeling. Harry didn't know.

However, it gave him pause. He wondered, for a while, if there was anything he would've liked to have told someone before the task happened. He didn't really have any loved ones to tell; the ones he did have were long gone, and they themselves didn't get to say their piece either.

And all Harry could think of was that he never got to see Tonks yesterday, and that if there was one thing beyond anything else that he could've wished for, it was that he could see her once more, and look at her beautiful face, or see the joy in her eyes when she laughed, or feel her in his arms just one more time.

And that hurt.

She'd been working in London the day before, so he'd not even been able to see her then. Tonks had sent him a letter, just like they used to. It's contents weren't particularly outstanding: she'd spoken of work, and of how that dickhead James had been promoted by their superior for no reason, and of how she'd submitted her application to be considered for extra fight training by the DMLE. But Harry found himself reading the words over and over again; committing each of them to memory. He traced the letters with his eyes, trying to remember how she shaped the letters and the way it was all so incredibly scrawled, as though the letters were dancing on the page.

Yet, he found his eyes still fell to the way she signed off. It read:

 _Love always,_

 _Tonks_

 _p.s. If you beat Fleur's score, you need to say 'welcome to the party, pal'. You_ _ **Have**_ _to._

Which, even as he sat waiting to face a danger beyond anything he could've ever imagined, still made him smile.

Thankfully, he managed to distract himself with thoughts of Tonks until a knock came at the door, and with it came a wave of anxiety that washed through him.

"Harry?" called out Hermione's voice. "Professor Dumbledore sent me to collect you for the first task. It's time."

Hermione opened the door, letting herself in. She looked to be quite nervous, though she seemed to mask it with a cool propriety. Her posture perfect, her diction crisp; it was as though she'd just arrived from a class on etiquette.

"Come on, Harry," she continued. "You wouldn't want to be late for the task, would you?"

Harry really did not understand the logic in that statement. If he could be late for the task indefinitely, he would. But he stood nonetheless, following Hermione out of the door and through the corridors of the castle.

"So that's where you were camped out all this time?" Hermione asked, referring to the Lupin's classroom. "Most of Gryffindor thought you'd fled the country or something."

"It's easier than dealing with everyone else." Harry muttered.

"You're not wrong," said Hermione. "Professor Lupin was a great teacher as well. I can see why you'd want to be there."

Harry didn't think to tell her that Lupin himself was not the reason he was there, or that Lupin knew his parents and was one of his Dad's best friends, yet didn't tell Harry any of that. His room was secluded; that was why he was there.

"So, are you ready?" she asked. It took Harry by surprise.

"As I'll ever be." he said.

Hermione led him out of the castle, into the grounds, and rather perplexingly toward the Forbidden Forest.

"Where are we going?"

"There's a tent out in the forest," Hermione explained, pointing out through the trees where he could see the tip of it protruding. "I can't go there because I'm not a champion, so you'll have to go there yourself, okay?"

Harry nodded. Hermione took him by surprise, breaking her mask of control, rushing toward him and giving him a hug, nearly crushing his sternum as she did.

"Good luck, Harry," she whispered. "You can do this."

Harry made his way to the tent on shaky legs, his nerves finally setting in. It was the feeling of the unknown that was most weighing upon him; the knowledge that he had utterly no idea what he was waiting for.

He entered the tent, confronted with the sight of the two non-Hogwarts champions, Cedric absent for reasons not immediately obvious. Krum stood in the corner, staring at nothing, and seemed to be having a frowning competition with whom he had no opposition; and Fleur, having noticed his arrival, had then decided to place all of her energy in glaring a hole into his head.

Harry took a seat, and simply stared at his lap, trying to keep his mind as blank as possible; no good would come from cycling through spells in his mind, after all.

In fact, he almost succeeded in doing so, when he heard the footsteps of a new arrival, and he turned to see Cedric walking into the tent, his face as white as a sheet. Rather oddly, though, he avoided making eye contact with any of them; as though he was afraid his eyes would tell a secret.

Harry knew then that Cedric knew what the first task would be.

He couldn't begrudge it, either. If Harry had the time, or the ability, to find out he'd have wanted to know too. No doubt Cedric's afternoon was going to be safer than his because of it.

However, what was more worrying was that, upon closer inspection, Krum was also judiciously avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room, an odd look from the usually stoic man. And Fleur, for all her mean looks, was oddly fidgety, and not at all the composed figure she usually cut. Harry reasoned it could've been nerves from the task forcing them to act like this, but it didn't appear to be so. It wasn't fear that filled them.

"You all know, don't you?" Harry asked of them, rising from his seat, his voice surprising himself. "You know what the task is."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Fleur replied, far too quickly. Krum said nothing, and Cedric, if it were possible, grew even more suspicious in his avoidance of Harry's eyes.

"But you do, don't you?" Harry continued. "I don't blame you, in truth. I'd just like some honesty if you're going to cheat."

"These are the words of one who has cheated and wishes to cover their tracks," Fleur replied, looking down her nose at him. "You do not fool me."

"And how exactly do you propose I cheated?" Harry questioned, irritated now. "I have been in the hospital wing for two weeks."

"It was simply a cover-up." said Fleur, and her face showed that her argument sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"I'm sorry, Harry!" Cedric suddenly blurted out, his hazel eyes pleading forgiveness, Hufflepuff honesty coming through. "I just - Hagrid owed my father a favour and he showed me! I promise I didn't mean to cheat."

"Just because he cheated does not mean I did also." Fleur denied.

Cedric scoffed. "I saw your Headmistress there," he said. "I seriously doubt she did not relay the information." Cedric turned to Krum. "And before you deny your involvement, I saw Karkaroff there as well."

"Fine," said Krum, his eyes finally losing their thousand yard stare. "So we have all cheated. If we all know, there is an equal playing field."

"I don't have a clue what I'm up against." Harry said, clenching his jaw.

"Well, you are not a true champion, so it does not matter." Fleur said, dismissively.

" _True_ champion or not, Harry's fourteen, and none of us thought to tell him," scolded Cedric. "This tournament is dangerous, and we allowed ourselves to be selfish in the name of competition."

"Well, if he could cheat to get _in_ the tournament, he can cheat during it, can he not?" asked Fleur. "We are not his keepers, Monsieur Diggory. He knew what he was getting himself into."

"You do not seriously still believe he _chose_ to compete, do you?" Cedric asked, incredulously. "Because if you do, I have absolutely no idea why you were chosen to compete in the first place."

"But of course he did; there is no other explanation," said Fleur, as though quoting fact. "How else would you explain his suspicious absence as the names were drawn? He was giving himself an alibi."

"I was visiting my parent's graves," said Harry, anger in his voice, his nerves forgotten. "They died on Halloween. But obviously, I chose to do this. I chose to put myself in incredible danger, and to have a terrifying amount of attention on myself when I can't attend our opening feast without having a panic attack. I obviously did all this."

Harry could see Fleur force her eyes to the ground, shame filling her face as realisation dawned.

"Harry, I'm sorry," said Cedric, his eyes sad. "We should've been better competitors to you. I'm ashamed that I cheated, and I'm sorry I didn't help you even though I could've. Do you want to know what we're facing?"

Harry shook his head. "No, it's alright," he said. "If I'm going to die facing whatever it is we're up against, I may as well die knowing I wasn't a cheat."

Cedric attempted to put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder, but Harry shrugged it off. "It's not that bad, Harry," he said, though his words lost their worth when Harry heard Viktor snort in contempt. "You'll be okay."

Harry sat back down, his mind blank to all but the rage that had built up. To think, as Harry sat in his room, worried beyond belief, the three of them were able to prepare and be calm. He was livid.

"Ah, Champions!" called out Ludo Bagman's voice, walking into the tent with one hand behind his back and Barty Crouch in tow, his presence making Harry's day all the worse. "I'm glad to see you've all made your way here today."

"Are you here to explain the task?" asked Krum.

"Indeed, Mr Krum," replied Bagman, grinning. "So, each of you are required to retrieve a golden egg. But that is not all," Bagman brought his hidden arm forward, revealing a drawstring bag. "You will each have to bypass a _dragon_."

And, Harry, because he had no other choice, grew _even_ angrier at the other three.

Because they were facing a _dragon_.

An actual dragon.

An honest to _fucking goodness,_ flying, fire-breathing, horde-collecting, gold-stealing, magic-resistant, _gigantic-_ lizard-looking, just-come-from-the-Misty-Mountains-to-fuck-your-world-up, dragon. He wondered if it talked.

Harry was appalled. And, more importantly, he was furious.

"Yes, as Ludo said, a dragon," said Crouch. "In this bag, there is a model of each of the four dragons that you may face. Your task is to retrieve a golden egg from the dragon's nest, without disrupting the other eggs in there, and to do it as quickly and is safely as possible. Good luck."

Cedric chose his first, retrieving a blue-grey dragon that looked rather calm, as dragons went. He looked incredibly relieved at the prospect.

Krum went afterward, gaining a deep-red dragon that looked like something out of a Chinese myth; again, looking relieved. Harry didn't want to think about why on earth they were relieved; it did not bode well.

Fleur went afterward, her body shaking terribly, delicately retrieving a green dragon that looked _placid._ The relief in her was palpable; as though a bomb she was attached to had been diffused.

Which meant only one thing. Somehow, Harry had _again_ drawn the short straw.

With a rather large amount of trepidation, Harry placed his hand into the bag, and felt his finger being nipped at by what he knew to be his dragon. He snatched it out, and as he pulled it from the bag, Harry came face to face with a perfect replica of the one species of dragon that he could name.

He knew of it because the first time wizards had encountered it, they had used the Goblet of Fire to choose a champion to exile it from its nest in western Romania. The species that had more recorded slayings of wizards than any being _other_ than wizards themselves. One of the few creatures that, when encountered in the wild, had only one directive advised; _run_.

The Hungarian Horntail.

Harry was fucked.

"The best of luck to you all," said Bagman, grinning cheerfully as he left the tent. Harry wanted to punch him in the throat.

Harry fell to his chair, resigned to the fact that he was probably going to get maimed. He knew he'd probably look back on it as 'the day I lost my legs' or something. There was simply no hope; Harry was faced with one of the most dangerous creatures on the planet, and he was tasked with stealing something from it. Something that, to it, was one of things it cared about most in the world; its child.

He still had the miniature version of the Horntail in his hand. He stared into its yellow eyes with something akin to despise and thought, again; why him?

He was the only one that didn't cheat, and _this_ was his reward?

It just didn't seem right.

In his mind, a sudden and irrational hatred formed for that Horntail that faced him. It was like Malfoy with scales.

"Harry, it won't be that bad," Cedric said, though Harry could barely hear him through the blood in his ears. "And if they get out of control, there's twenty handlers on sight just in case."

The very thought that it might get out of control worried him even further, which in turn made him angrier that it was him that had to face it. It was a vicious cycle of anxious-rage that had formed.

Harry thought desperately for what on earth he might be able to do to something as absolutely terrifying as the Hungarian Horntail. Its body was impervious to assault; it flew faster than just about anything else that existed in nature. Its fire could melt _steel_ , for goodness sake.

Harry realised he'd just have to distract it; to draw its eye elsewhere and hope it stayed distracted long enough for him to get the egg. Or he'd die.

Soon enough, Cedric was called up, leaving the tent with a deep breath to calm himself. Distantly, Harry could hear the roars of the crowd as he entered the arena, and the call of Bagman announcing his arrival.

"The eyes." Krum said, out of the blue, to Harry. Harry looked over, and saw the oddly nervous figure that Krum was had gone and for the first time, Harry understood why Quidditch rallied around him so readily; despite the crisis, his being appeared icily calm. Harry wondered how much of the celebrity's nerves were to do with the possibility with facing the Horntail.

"Pardon?"

"The eyes are its weakness," Viktor explained. "If you are to face it, you should at least know that."

Harry nodded at him. "Thanks."

Viktor shook his head once, though it was emphatic. "Thank me after you have survived."

Soon after, Harry heard the crowd release a deafening cheer, and Ludo Bagman's voice shouting over the top of them.

"Goodness me! Our champion, Cedric Diggory, has beaten his dragon in a most impressive manner. That will be hard to best!" Bagman shouted.

Viktor was next, walking out of the tent without a look back, his shoulders squared and his gait confident. Harry wondered how much of it was simply for show, and how much of it was just _him_. Harry knew, simply by the way that his countrymen fell into step behind him at every occasion, that he was near-revered in his own country. Perhaps he had developed such a confidence because it was just expected of him.

Nonetheless, Harry could've been deaf and he'd have heard the crowd's roar as he walked into the arena.

Harry looked to Fleur, the only other person in the tent, and found that she was doing the same thing, though the look she gave him was not one he had expected.

"I am _sorry_ , 'Arry," Fleur said, and her eyes said the same; her beautiful, blue eyes holding a painful sadness. "I thought you were competition. I should have realised that you were not a competitor, but a prisoner."

"Are you being serious?" Harry asked, his surprise shaking him monetarily from the rage he was feeling.

"I promise," she replied, holding Harry's eye contact. Harry could only see honesty. "I have said things to you that I am most ashamed of. I called you a child, yet I have acted as little else, and for that I am sorry."

"Apology accepted." Harry said, nodding to her.

"You must understand; I have been under great pressure from my peers," Fleur explained. "This is a very important tournament for my school, and it is up to me to perform, and it has put a lot of stress on me. I am sorry that I allowed that to cloud my judgement."

"It's alright." Harry said, but did not mean.

"It is not, but I thank you anyway," Fleur said. "You did not deserve my hate, just as you do not deserve to face this dragon, and yet you will have to face both."

"Seems it's my destiny to face things I don't deserve." said Harry, rather angrily.

"So it seems," Fleur said, not knowing the full extent of his words. "But, 'Arry, I believe in you. I can see a steel in your spine, and a fire in your belly. You _will_ get through this."

"Thanks." said Harry, still agitated despite her words.

"We, all three of us, owe you a debt for what has happened," said Fleur. "And I wish to pay that to you. Say the word, and I will do it, as will the others."

Harry nodded. He could hear another roar of the crowd, and Bagman's voice shouting Viktor's praises. It seems he did quite well.

Soon after, Fleur's name was called.

"Anyway, it seems my time has come," Fleur said, standing up straighter and the confident smile that Harry normally associated with her appearing once more. "Good luck, 'Arry."

"Good luck, Fleur." Harry replied automatically.

She followed in the other's path, walking from the tent and leaving Harry alone with nothing but his thoughts for company. He thought on Tonks; that he'd give anything to get through this task, if only to see her again.

But more than that, he simply stoked the fires of his anger. If he was angry, Harry thought, he would not be nervous about having to face the crowd, or more importantly, the Horntail.

The crowd seemed to be rather quiet outside during Fleur's challenge, completely contrasting with the other two champion's efforts. Harry briefly wondered why, though it was probably a good thing; no news was good news, after all.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Bagman's voice called out. "And she's done it! A most unique technique as well!"

The realisation began to dawn then. The fact that this was real, and very soon he was expected to face down a dragon; to very literally look fear in the eye, and defeat it.

"And finally, our _very_ special champion!" Bagman shouted, earning a mixed reaction, though mostly just silence. "The champion _no-one_ expected! Harry Potter, come on out!"

So that's what he did. Harry walked out of the tent, his new wand in hand, and attempted to keep his heart out of his mouth as he walked into the arena.

* * *

The crowd was deathly silent as Harry entered the arena; most of in fear of what was at the other end of the arena. Harry could focus on nothing else; his eyes centered of the Horntail. Its gaping maw, it's razor-sharp scales, its enormous body draped protectively over its nest. Harry could see the golden egg peaking out from its underbelly, glinting in the sunlight.

Time seemed to slow for a moment for Harry as he looked this apex predator in the eye. There was nothing else in the world, at that moment, other than Harry and that Horntail. He knew then that he had two options; fight or flight.

And he was too angry at the world to run.

Then, Harry sprang into action. " _Draconifors, Draconifors, Draconifors_ ," he cast, pointing at three of the large boulders that were placed in the arena, transfiguring them into dragons; Harry had the presence of mind to transfigure them into Horntails, to better distract the very real Horntail only a hundred yards away.

Harry sent them flying off, circling around the Horntail and drawing its eye. He hoped the Horntail would give chase to his creations, leaving the egg for the taking.

It was not to be.

With a lazy exhale, the Horntail burnt them to a crisp, leaving only their chard remains lying in the arena. Then, the Horntail turned to Harry, an almost bemused look in its eye, mocking him. It did not even approach to attack, dismissively keeping its distance from him.

It was time for Plan B, thought Harry.

Harry drew a deep breath, and to his horror, so did the Horntail. Harry centered himself, and with the thoughts of the arcane on his mind, pointed his wand into the sky.

In his mind, there was only three thoughts.

 _Power. Focus. Strength_.

" _Vesi_." Harry spoke, as he had done so many times before. But the result was unlike anything he had ever seen.

A vortex of water, taller than the stands that held the spectators, formed around Harry, with him in its eye. Thick, vast ropes of water spiraled around his body, arcane power pulsating around him as water flushed through the air. This time, there was no chaos; there was no slip in control. This vortex was his. It was _him_.

Harry could taste his magic as it filled the arena, the air thick with the tremendous energy he was pouring out. This vortex was not simply _water_. No. It was the antithesis to the power of the dragon's flame. For the destruction that fire caused, this vortex birthed and cleansed. For all the fire was pain and suffering, this water was soothing and rejuvenating.

And he was not finished there.

Harry could feel the Horntail begin to exhale, and that is when Harry struck. He pointed his wand toward the dragon.

" _Uhendus!_ ," he shouted, and from once there was a hurricane of aquatic energy, there was now a _torrent_ of force, pointing only one way, in a corkscrew of water toward the Horntail.

Harry knew that nothing could truly shield you from a dragon's fire, but he gave it a damn good go.

Fire met water in the arena. Violence met healing. Destruction met rejuvenation.

Harry faced the dragon; _head on_.

Harry closed his eyes, focusing only on forcing back the wall of flame that erupted from the Horntail's gaping mouth. He could _feel_ the burning heat that poured from the great beast; the very heat that threatened to destroy him, and he resolved that he _would_ survive.

Neither of them gave an inch, neither backing down for the fight. For each thrust of his wand, forcing the magical water toward the dragon, the Horntail drew breath once more and fired yet another gout of its cursed flame.

Neither would give an inch, but very soon the world did.

The world could not handle the very magnitude of power that warred with one another in the centre of that arena, and when Harry redoubled his efforts to best the dragon with his own force, the world gave in.

The very air seemed to explode outward, showering the surrounding area in wave upon wave of magic and debris. Harry was sent flying backward, his spine smashing into one of the stands among the rubble. For his effort, the dragon lost its ground, the blast forcing it away from its nest, shards of stone forced into its hide and slicing the beast open, blood flowing from its body.

Harry rushed to his feet, shaking away the cobwebs. He could feel the cuts on his arms and chest; the rubble having lodged itself into his skin. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, and it hurt to think.

And yet still Harry rose up.

He looked over at the Horntail, and their eyes met once more. No longer was Harry its prey; an easy meal for it to take whenever it pleased. Harry was its opponent; its equal. Its adversary.

Harry had earned its _respect_.

Harry, limping as one leg had been sliced deeply, began to walk away from the stand he'd be sent into, and into to surer ground. Equally, the Horntail made its way back to its nest, with strides less powerful than Harry would expect for such an enormous beast.

Thinking quickly, Harry pointed its wand at the eyes of the Horntail. " _Reducto!_ " Harry shouted, hoping to blast its eye out of its socket.

With speed greater than Harry thought possible, the dragon raised its wing and allowed the blasting curse to ricochet off of it, doing little other than dislodge part of the Horntail's scale. Harry took off running, adrenaline coursing through his body, serving to mask his pain, and circled the Horntail, looking for an opening to its eyes.

" _Reducto!_ " Harry cast once more, this time the Horntail shrugging its arm forward. " _Reducto! Reducto!_ "

Each time Harry would cast, the Horntail would simply allow its invulnerable body to bore the brunt. Harry kept circling, the movement preventing the dragon from taking aim and setting Harry alight, but he knew he couldn't keep this up for long.

And before long, he was caught.

Harry veered too closely to the Horntail, and before he could get off his spell, the Horntail struck.

With a swipe of its great claw, Harry was sent flying skyward through the air. Forty or so feet, Harry was sent by the dragon, flying through the sky against his will. As he was thrown, the edge of its claw met Harry's chest, cleaving shallowly into his skin.

Yet Harry, in his shock, continued to cast his curse.

" _REDUCTO!"_ Harry screamed as he soared through the air, pain in his voice as his chest was torn apart.

And, as luck would have it, Harry's spell found its mark, in the eye of the Horntail.

The blasting curse collided with the soft tissue of the Horntail's eye, and Harry watched as it burst like a water balloon, sending gelatinous tissue into the surrounding area. The dragon screamed, a truly horrid sound - a sound that no human was ever truly supposed to hear.

However, Harry had more pressing matters. Namely, the ground that was approaching at a speed far greater than he could have ever anticipated.

" _Arresto Momentum!_ " He shouted, pointing his wand toward himself, blissfully feeling his speed slow, allowing him to fall to the ground safely. Yet still, as his feet made contact with the earth, he heard his ankle make a horrible snapping noise, and a sharp pain followed.

But Harry knew that he could not stop; he could not surrender to the agony that filled him. He knew he _could_ defeat this beast, and he _would_.

Across the arena, the Horntail writhed in agony, its eye bleeding profusely. And yet, despite the pain that it screamed in name of, the dragon was still a terrifying sight. Its claws were still sharp and mighty, its body vast and powerful beyond comprehension. Its fire could still render him a pile of ashes in a fraction of a second, and its teeth could cleave him in two without resistance.

Harry knew that, in order to best his opponent, he would have to do something special. He would have to do something that no-one had ever done before. If he wanted to do what wizards had not done in many years, and best a Hungarian Horntail _alone_ , he would have to perform an act that had not been done for _milenia_.

Harry rubbed his thumb along the length of his wand, feeling the carved bunches of elderberries. The Horntail had gotten over its agony, staring at Harry with murder in its one good eye. Harry heaved a breath, the action agony as his chest bled through his shirt, and with his other arm clutched to his chest to stem the flow, he pointed his wand at the terrifying beast.

Then Harry _spoke_.

" _Bronte Thor Vis_."

At once, the clear blue sky fell away and was replaced by the dark sky of a _storm_. Pressure built in the arena, water filled the clouds that formed over head. _Ozone_ filled the air.

And the _wrath_ of the _Gods_ was upon that Horntail.

An enormous spike of lightning tore through the air, lighting up half of Scotland in its incandescence, billowing out energy as it _struck_ the Horntail on the skull. One long, powerful cable of electrical power _lanced_ through the sky through Harry's _will_ alone, overpowering the Horntail and leaving it decimated.

Harry had called forth a storm, and it was _his_ to command.

The Horntail could not move, the lightning pinning the dragon to the ground by the pure power of its motion, forcing it to writhe in agony on the arena floor. It let out a scream of utter anguish, so loud it could be heard over the roar of Harry's thunder.

The dragon was rendered a twitching mess, feeling nothing but pain. And Harry did not feel sorry for it as were it possible, the dragon would have done the same to him.

It tried to resist, to fight Harry's power. His _will._ But it couldn't. Nothing could.

A shocking realisation _hit_ Harry then. He had called forth the Northern Magics.

He had called forth the _higher arts_.

He had forced his will upon the world such that he had caused an act of natural disaster. _He_ , and he alone, was responsible for thunder to be called from the sky and lightning to spike, racing through the body of a Hungarian Horntail.

And, as he finally released the spell, and the sky cleared again, Harry had _slayed_ a Hungarian Horntail.

The most dangerous dragon alive. Alone.

The rest of the world came back into focus, the danger of the dragon gone as it was now simply a twitching body on the arena floor. Harry could hear the crowd let loose a deafening cheer, the roar meeting his ears through the pounding of blood.

"OH MY MERLIN!" Bagman called out, utter _awe_ fueling his words. "HARRY POTTER HAS CONJURED LIGHTNING, AND DEFEATED THE HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL. I DO NOT BELIEVE MY EYES. THAT _CANNOT_ BE POSSIBLE."

Harry looked up, and he found Dumbledore on the judges podium, a proud look upon his face. Dumbledore saw that Harry was looking at him, and he smiled. Harry smiled back.

However, Harry was searching for Tonks in the crowd. He looked high and low, searching every row of every stand for her, but he could not see her face. His heart dropped at the thought that he had achieved his finest accomplishment, and she was not there to see it.

Suddenly, the pain that his efforts had caused returned ten-fold, the adrenaline fading away, making Harry all too aware of consequences of such an ordeal.

Before he passed out from the pain, Harry managed to limp over to the Horntail's nest, plucking the golden egg he desired, side-stepping the corpse of his defeated foe.

Harry forced his ailing body over to the medical tent, dimly registering the presence of other three champions, all of which were openly gaping at him; even Viktor, though his expression was barely anything more than apathy. Harry limped his broken body to the first bed in there, and promptly collapsed into it, exhausted.

"I cannot believe they would force you to face dragons!" exclaimed Madam Pomfrey, bustling toward the end of Harry's bed. "And a Hungarian Horntail as well! Do they have _no_ common sense?"

Harry allowed his eyes to droop, his bones weary, wishing for nothing more than to sleep for a week.

"No you don't!" said Pomfrey, snapping her fingers in his ear. "I want you awake - you might have a concussion, and they're best treated conscious."

Harry hmm-ed, sinking deeper into the bed. Pomfrey busied herself with sticking him back together, spells fired toward him that sowed together his gaping skin and clotted the blood. With a wave of her wand, she set his broken ankle in a cast, and treated the gaping hole in his chest.

"You've re-broken your leg, Mr Potter," said Pomfrey, almost tutting. He wanted to tell her that she was welcome to have faced the dragon _for_ him, but didn't have the strength to speak. "It'll have to heal the muggle way now. As for the cut on your chest, I can heal it, but it'll scar. Dragon injuries rarely heal properly; they're just too magical."

Harry couldn't bring himself to worry about any of that, too tired for the strain. In fact, he was too tired to keep his eyes open.

However, he saw the one sight that'd keep him awake through anything.

"Welcome to the party, pal." He croaked out as Tonks walked into the tent, his throat ripped apart from inhaling sulphur. Still, Tonks laughed; Harry thought it was mostly relief.

"Harry, you _magnificent bastard_ ," said Tonks, running to his side. Harry couldn't have been happier to here her voice; pure relief flooded him. Her face came into Harry's vision, his eyes barely cracked open, her light-brown hair framing her heart-shaped face; Harry thought she looked like an angel. "You were _incredible_."

Tonks reached out, roughly hugging him to her chest, but the pain that the action caused was agony, forcing him to shy away.

"Sorry!" Tonks said, abashed. "I forgot - you just fought a _Hungarian Horntail_!"

Harry smiled up at her, and Tonks smiled back.

"I just _knew_ you could do it," said Tonks, beaming down at him. "I've never seen anything like that lightning spell. I didn't know it was possible."

Harry tried to speak, but his throat was just too rough to be able to. Wordlessly, Pomfrey passed him a glass of water, which he gulped down immediately.

"It wasn't, until today." Harry said, wryly. As wryly as one could be when one was in agony in a hospital bed.

"I just don't know how you did it," said Tonks. "It was a _Horntail_ , Harry!"

"I'm aware," said Harry. "I think of all the people in the world, I'm probably the _most_ aware."

Tonks grinned. "I was _so_ scared when we were told it was you that was up against the Horntail," she said. "I'm glad all my fear was for nothing."

"At least it's over now," Harry said, wincing as Pomfrey prodded at a part of his arm that was still bleeding. "I never want to be that close to dragon-fire again for as long as I live."

Tonks laughed. Dimly, Harry realised that the others were still in the room; Fleur and Cedric were still staring at him.

Tonks seemed to notice them too, waving a small hello to Cedric, who waved back equally ambivalently. She turned back to Harry, though she had a worried expression on her face.

She brought her mouth close to his ear. "Are you okay?" Tonks asked, whispering.

"I am now." Harry said, fighting the grimace that the pain had brought, and smiled.

"You've no idea how glad I am that you get through that dragon," Tonks whispered. "I'm so proud of you."

Harry wanted to tell Tonks that it was with thoughts of her that he got through it, but he couldn't find the words. He settled for taking hold of her hand, squeezing gently. She squeezed back, just as gently.

"I care for you so much, Harry," she said, resting her forehead on the side of his. "And I don't want to ever see you go through anything like that ever again."

Harry couldn't _stop_ the beaming smile that formed on his face.

"Once this tournament ends, there's not a chance that I'm ever doing something this daft ever again," he said. Though it wasn't true; he could think of one other reason he'd put himself in that sort of danger. "I gained a pretty good idea of what it'd be like to be a quaffle today."

Tonks laughed. "You were the cutest quaffle I've ever seen," she said, earning a grin from Harry. "Do you want to go and get your scores?"

Harry nodded, gingerly getting out of the bed he'd hoped to make his home for a great deal longer. He stood on his one good leg, and Tonks rushed to his other side, wrapping an arm around his waist as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder to steady himself.

"Oof, you're heavy," Tonks complained. "If you couldn't, y'know, smite me with lightning I wouldn't put up with this."

"I don't think I'm in the physical condition to do much _smiting_ ," Harry said, walking with Tonks as a ballast. "And it was easy to hit that dragon. It was _massive_."

"Are you calling me short?" Tonks asked. "'Cos I'm only like two inches shorter than you."

"In comparison to a _dragon_? Yes, yes I was," Harry said, smirking.

"Just you wait," Tonks said, smirking back. "When I figure out how to morph into a dragon, you'll see."

"Please don't," Harry pleaded. "I _enjoy_ your company. I'd hate to _have_ to smite you."

"You couldn't smite me if you tried," joked Tonks. "You haven't got it in you."

"Is that a challenge?" Harry asked.

"It's a promise." Tonks said, winking, as she led them to where they could see the judges.

Dumbledore was first, giving him a 9.

"That's crap!" Tonks exclaimed.

"It's probably because I wasn't supposed to actually _kill_ the thing." Harry guessed, leaning heavily on Tonks as they stood.

Next, Madam Maxine, who shot out the number 6.

"See, _that_ 's ridiculous," Tonks asserted. "No-one in this _country_ , let alone in this tournament could've done what you did. They're being unfair."

"Maybe you're biased, Dora," Harry said. "I did kill a very valuable creature."

"It's not bias if you're actually right," replied Tonks, sighing slightly. "I just want you to get the credit you deserve. You were the best by a country mile, and they're not showing that."

"It's not that big of a deal," said Harry. "All I wanted was to survive; I'm not that fussed if I get the most points or not."

"Well it's still bullshit," Tonks asserted. "Anyone with eyes could've seen you were the best."

Karkaroff went after, sending the number 3.

"Oh my God!" Tonks exclaimed. "He killed a dragon! What more do you want?"

"Tonks, it's alright," Harry soothed. "If we both know that I did well, why does it matter?"

"Because you deserve _better_."

Barty Crouch went next, sending out a 9. It seemed to placate Tonks as she heaved a sigh.

However, upon Bagman's score, a 1, Tonks was even more furious.

"What the hell!" She shouted. "That is such bullshit! Half the people in the stands were afraid to look at him, he was that incredible!"

"Don't worry about it," said Harry. "He's on the take anyway. He tried to pay me to throw the tournament."

" _Prick._ " Tonks said, fuming.

"So, where does that put me in the scores?" Harry asked lightly.

Tonks breathed out a heavy breath. "Well, after they cheated you and gave you 28, you're in equal last position with _Delacour_."

"That's not too bad," Harry said. "All things considered, if you'd have asked me this morning if I could have all of my body in tact and not be totally last, I'd have snapped your hands off."

Tonks pressed her face into his shoulder. "It shouldn't be like that, though."

"But it is," Harry said. "There's no point crying over spilled milk."

"There is if you're lactose intolerant," Tonks retorted.

Harry rested his chin on the top of Tonks' head.

"I suppose we'll just have to take the moral victory, then." Tonks moaned, after a while.

"You can also enjoy the fact that you still have someone to make you coffee and watch Die Hard with you," Harry reasoned. "None of this tournament stuff really matters. You're in my real life first place."

"Well you're in _actual_ first place," responded Tonks. Then, she looked up to him, smiling affectionately. "But you're in my first place, too."

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and feel free to leave a review if you have any thoughts.**

 **Until next time.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hi there!**

 **I hope you enjoy the next chapter - I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Feel free to leave a review letting me know what you think, and what you'd like to see in the future.**

 **Thank you.**

* * *

After the first task, Harry found life far easier than it had ever been before.

In lieu of his performance, the majority of the Hogwarts population had collectively decided to avoid Harry. It seemed that what Tonks had said was true; they _were_ afraid of him. Most of the school tended to avoid his eyes, often giving him a wide birth as he walked from the library to his classroom. Given walking had developed into a struggle, his leg damaged enough to require a cane for walking to be possible, their actions were doubly positive.

There were a few exceptions; a boy in Gryffindor seemed fascinated by his very existence, wishing to take his picture or sign a copy of the Prophet that spoke of him (the boy was ignorant of the fact that Rita Skeeter had called him a cheat _seven times_ in said article).

The only friction in an otherwise stress-free time were the polite interjections of some of the higher year Ravenclaws, who'd become enamored with the magic he'd used. Harry had quickly pointed them in the direction of some of the more theoretical works on the topic, books that did not mention their use, and left them to it. He'd hoped, privately, that they'd make some development in its study, if only because then he'd be able to compare thoughts with someone else.

In truth, after the first task, the problems of life had, in his eyes, become far less severe. The overwhelming tsunami of problems that had before insurmountable now felt like the lapping waves of a calm shore. Malfoy and his supports had ceased their action. As Harry was no longer in direct contact with Snape, his aggrieving personality was now far less pressing, though Tonks had began to make real tracks in his persecution.

Really, the only outstanding problem was how exactly he had ended up in the tournament. Dumbledore'd inquiry had not been forthcoming, the spellwork that caused his involvement proving difficult to crack. And yet even that felt less important after the Horntail, such was the joy of his efforts.

Harry had taken to drawing more frequently as of late; usually landscapes. He'd often brave the steps up to the White Tower, ignoring the nagging pain in his leg, and simply draw the view from its height. The nature that surrounded the castle was truly magnificent, and it was a crying shame that he had so infrequently taken it in before.

Tonks would normally have filled his time, but she had placed a lot of extra work upon herself at the DMLE, and unfortunately they had not seen each other quite as frequently since.

The tower offered a truly perfect view of the hills that surrounded Hogwarts; it was what he found himself sketching most often. Something entirely mundane, and yet in many ways more magical than anything that he would ever be able to accomplish.

Harry, in fact, was so engrossed in his task that he did not hear the footsteps climbing the stone steps of the tower. And, as the owner of the footsteps gave him a soft tap on the shoulder, he nearly jumped out of the tower, his wand already in hand, as he yelped in shock.

A soft laugh accompanied his yelp, and he turned around to see Fleur Delacour, her hand over her mouth as she attempted to muffle her amusement at his surprise. Harry brow furrowed at the sight, hiding his sketchbook behind him as his heart returned to a regular rate.

"I apologise, Monsieur Potter," said Fleur, though her voice still held a giggling tone. "It was not my intention to frighten you so."

Harry nodded, gesturing for her to take a seat beside him. He turned back to look at the world outside, his eyes solely on the rolling hills of his home in the hope that Fleur would read the message in his posture.

"Monsieur Potter, I came here to apologise once again," Fleur said, after a time. Harry could feel her shifting in her seat beside him. "I fear what I had said is not consolable, but I shall try."

"Really Fleur, it's alright." Harry said, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.

An oddly nervous chuckle escaped Fleur then. "I know you are lying to me, Monsieur Potter," she said. "I understand if you do not wish for us to be friends, but I will still endeavor to make things right. Have you any idea of a way I could do that?"

Harry's initial thought would be for her to leave him be.

Instead of voicing that however, he simply shook his head. "I don't think so, no."

"That is most unfortunate," Fleur said, brushing her blonde hair from her eyes. "I am truly sorry for what I said, you know. I am not often tactful, and usually that has cause, but with you that couldn't be further from the truth and I do truly regret my actions. It is just that I am not often recognised for my talent, and your inclusion had put a dampener on that. I'm sorry for allowing my pride to stop me from being a good person."

Harry stayed quiet, still looking out of the window.

"For all of my life, I have been shunned as one who was just a pretty face; one good for looking at, and not of any value beyond just that. I just wished to be respected as a person for once, rather than simply some exotic creature to fantasize about. All that actually happened was that I became someone unworthy of respect." Fleur said, looking down at the floor bashfully.

"Fleur, it's okay," Harry said, his eyes facing outward. "Just make sure that you don't do it again, alright?"

Fleur nodded almost frantically. "Thank you, Monsieur Potter," she said. "I promise I won't. And I'm sorry for cheating as well; it was most unfair."

"I don't blame you for that," Harry said. "If you can make yourself more safe, then you should."

"But you seemed so angry at Cedric when you found out he knew?"

"That's because he said he'd help me in the tournament if he could," Harry said. "I wasn't annoyed at him for cheating. I was annoyed because he broke a promise."

Harry could see Fleur's small smile of relief out of the corner of his eye. "It does make your performance all the more impressive, however."

"Tell that to the judges." Harry muttered beneath his breath.

"I would not put much stock in their opinion," Fleur said. "You would have to be blind to say anyone other than you won."

"Then it seems there are more astigmatic wizards than I had initially thought."

"What was it that you did?" Fleur asked, curious. "Because unless you have the ability to call forth Thunderbirds, I do not see another way that your efforts were possible."

It was a disservice to the Northern Magics, thought Harry, for their work to be compared to that of a Thunderbird. "It's just some esoteric magic," he said, quickly. "More for show than anything else."

"That, I highly doubt," Fleur, laughing slightly. "Magic for show does not tend to vanquish a Hungarian Horntail. Was it a battle Charm of some kind?"

Harry huffed. "A Transfiguration, actually," he said, in defense. "It is quite private; I'd prefer not to mention it."

"Is it a family magic, then?" Fleur asked. For want of a better response, Harry nodded. "Then I shall refrain from further questioning. It is not my business."

Harry smiled, thankful.

"I wish my family was as formidable as yours." Fleur said.

"But isn't your father second only to the French Minister?" Harry asked.

"He _is_ ," Fleur said. "And he is a truly loving man, but I'm afraid bureaucrats do not earn their power through combat. If they did, then your Headmaster would be lord of all the land."

Harry smiled at the truth of her statement. "And your mother?"

"My _mother_ ," Fleur said, a horrid emphasis on the word. "Is nothing more than a socialite climbing on Papa's good name. She is not worth the air that she breathes."

"I'm sorry." Harry said, somewhat taken back.

"It is okay. I have made peace with it all," Fleur said, though the anger that prickled around her words spoke otherwise. "It feels ridiculous me complaining about it at all when it could be so much worse."

Harry inclined his head slightly; he had no doubt as to what she was referring to. "I would not say that," he said. "I knew that my parents loved me, and even though I did not have much time with them, I always have that."

"I'm sorry." Fleur said, beginning to reach over to pat his arm in commiseration, but thinking better of it.

"I'd rather not talk about it." Harry said.

"Then we shall not," Fleur said. "Let us instead talk about happier things. We have both conquered a dragon, though yours were certainly more impressive than mine; we should be in high spirits."

"We should." Harry concurred, falsely.

"So, speaking of high spirits," Fleur said, beginning to brighten. "Have you heard about the Yule Ball?"

Harry shook his head.

"Well, then I have the pleasure of telling you," Fleur said, grinning to herself. "On the night of Yule, there is to be a ball held in your castle's grand hall. Most students shall be there, and many powerful people will also be in attendance."

"It does not seem to be my sort of thing, sorry." Harry said.

"But you must!" Fleur exclaimed. "The champions of the tournament are required to attend; they are the ones that open the ball."

"Then it is a good thing I am not a 'true' champion, as you said." Harry said, bristling.

Harry could feel Fleur wince beside him. "I am truly sorry for that," she said. "But the organisers are most assured that you will be there. They have said _four_ champions will be opening, not three."

Harry shook his head, his heart beginning to race. "That cannot be the case," he said. "They cannot force me to dance."

"I fear that they can," Fleur said. "You and your date are required to dance the opening waltz."

"And if I don't?" Harry asked, worry creeping in to his voice.

"Then, as you are not acting as a champion, you will be in breach of the magical contract," Fleur explained. "It would be in your best interest to do as they ask, and find a date."

"Joy."

"I did not think this would be such a hardship," Fleur said. "Can you not just ask your girlfriend?"

"My what?"

"Your _paramour_ ," Fleur said, waving her had as though that explained everything. "The girl who was by your side after the first task."

"What, Tonks?" Harry said, laughing incredulously. "She's not my girlfriend. She's just… _Tonks_."

"Well this Tonks certainly looked to be your girlfriend, and given how you started smiling as soon as you said her name, I think it is safe to say you wish her to be," Fleur said, ignoring any noises of protest from Harry. "Can you not ask her?"

Harry sighed, slouching into his seat. "I don't think so."

"And why not?"

"I don't think she'd say yes." Harry said, looking down at his shoes.

"Are you sure?" Fleur asked. "From her demeanour around you, I very much doubt that."

"Really?"

"Trust me, 'Arry," Fleur said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I know what attraction looks like."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Seriously?"

"Yes!" Fleur finally exclaimed. "You should ask her to the ball. She would be a fool to say no."

A hope was born in Harry, his green eyes brightening. "But she's a fair bit older than me," he said. "I doubt she'd say yes."

"Well, you will not know before you try," Fleur asked, looking at the profile of Harry's face. "Who cares about age when love is concerned?"

"She's _nineteen._ " Harry said.

"That may be a stretch," Fleur admitted. "But with the way she is with you, I have faith."

"But you only saw Tonks once."

" _Trust me_ ," Fleur said, smiling. "I know."

Harry thought, his brow furrowed, for a few moments. "I still don't know."

Fleur shook her head. "It is your choice, but I think not asking her is the wrong one," she said. "But if you choose not to, I am sure you will be fine. Plenty of girls will be willing to accept the attention for one night."

"That's a strong basis for a relationship; attention seeking," Harry said, sarcastically. "Who are you taking?"

Fleur sighed. "I do not yet have a date," she said. "As I'm sure you're aware, the allure can be inconvenient for starting a conversation with a boy."

"Not really, no," Harry said, abashed. "I don't really get anything from it."

"Hmm, that's peculiar," Fleur said. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Quite."

A thought formed in Fleur's eyes. "Then I have an offer," she said. "If your Tonks makes a poor choice and declines your offer, then you and I shall go together instead."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Harry asked. "Were you not at my throat not a week ago?"

Fleur winced. "I was, yes," she said, quickly. " _But_ , that is no longer the case now, is it?"

"I suppose not," Harry said, resignedly. "I still don't think it's a good idea."

"I wish to make things up to you, 'Arry," Fleur said. "Think of it as a _safety net_."

"Honestly Fleur, I'm not convinced," Harry said, his eyes fixated outside, upon one particular hill, much larger than all of the others that surrounded it. "I don't wish to be rude, but I don't think there's anything interesting for us to talk about, and I doubt we will enjoy our time together."

"'Arry, this is only a hypothetical situation," Fleur explained. "It will likely not happen. But you could _also_ think of it as me saving you the hassle of talking to another person."

Harry had to concede that she made a strong point.

"Fine," he said, after a moment's contemplation. "But if this happens, we dance only when we have to. Then you leave me alone, and you can hang out with your friends."

Fleur nodded, skittish. "Of course, 'Arry, that seems fair," she said, her eyes shyly peering up at him. "So, have you any idea of how you are going to ask your Tonks out?"

"I don't think she's anyone's Tonks," Harry corrected, before sighing. "I don't know; I'll probably say - 'do you want to go to the ball with me?'- and hope I don't stumble over any of the words."

"You could buy her flowers, at least?" Fleur supplied. "It's a grand occasion. It's a _ball_. You should be going all out for this."

"I don't think so," Harry said. "It's just a big party, isn't it?"

"Doesn't she deserve all of your effort?"

"Tonks deserves the world," Harry said, earnestly. "But this isn't the time to give it to her."

Fleur shook her head near-violently in her disagreement. "It is!" she exclaimed. "This is a ball. It is an occasion where girls become princesses and boys princes. It is an occasion of joy, and love and romance. One of the few occasions where our childish fairy stories become reality."

Harry swallowed his scoff of disbelief. "I think you might be on your own with that," he said. "It sounds to me to be a really terrible way to spend an evening."

"It is a great time!" Fleur insisted, looking into his eyes questioningly. "Did you not enjoy them in the past?"

"I've never been to one, but based on the fact that there will be hundreds of people there, I'm fairly sure I won't enjoy it."

"If you've never experienced one, you should refrain judgement. You, with the girl you adore, dancing and holding one another; it will be magical," Fleur said, her voice oddly youthful and innocent. "'Arry, I love Balls. I love the dancing, and the music, and the romance of it all. I love wearing a beautiful dress, and for once the attention I receive being justified.

"When I was younger, Papa would tell me the story of how he met my mother at a Ball, and how he knew then that he wanted to live the rest of his life with her as soon as she entered the room. Even as I grew older, and grew to learn that my mother was not worth the respect Papa gave her, I've still carried around this love."

Harry was stunned at her outburst, silent as her words held the air of the room.

"You're giving up a lot if Tonks rejects me." Harry commented, at last.

"Then that will be my payment," Fleur said. "Though I hope all the more that when I am there, I can look at you and your love, as I dance with mine."

* * *

Harry had not wanted to put any effort into solving the riddle of the golden egg immediately as he wasn't a massive fan of being screamed at, and the prospect of such an event occurring put a dampener on any critical thinking he'd planned on doing. However, as Tonks was visiting her parents, he found himself going through the motions of research.

Screaming, or more accurately screeching, was not magically significant nor was it historically significant. No great battles were won or lost by it, and no power was gained or lost by it. The noise the egg made, a cross between the baby's cry and the dying wail of an ungodly animal, provided no help whatsoever. If there was a rhyme or reason to it, then Harry was entirely ignorant of them.

He had thought it might have been a language of some kind, and had gone looking for spells that used unintelligible noises as incantations. Surprisingly, it was more common than one might imagine, with many war tribes of various origins using entirely the will of the wizard, rather than any words, to pass meaning on to the magic they did. Very rarely was it useful, as words were far better at conveying thoughts than simply screaming at the top of one's lungs, hence why words were still used now.

Screeching in the manner that the egg did was usually associated with pain, or loss. A precursor to the Cruciatus Curse was to be found among Slavic folk-mages using such a screech; the effect was far less effective, though in using it you were able to hurt more than one person at a time. An interesting, though useless, aside, thought Harry.

He was saved from any further study in wide-scale torture by a tap on his shoulder, which struck him as odd as most people dared not be within twenty feet of him. One of the Slytherin boys that had before been so high and mighty had taken a step into the library, found Harry was sat in the corner, and immediately left.

Harry turned around, and found that the hand that tapped belonged to Cedric Diggory. Immediately, Harry got up to leave, a grimace of distaste appearing on his face.

"Harry, wait!" Cedric whispered, taking hold of his shoulder, which Harry shrugged off. "I want to say sorry."

"And I want to leave," Harry said, his jaw clenched. "So let me do that."

Harry left the library, walking as quickly as his damaged leg could carry him, Cedric on his heels as he did so.

"Harry, please! Let me say sorry." Cedric said.

"No."

"I didn't mean to do what I did!" Cedric called.

"You didn't _mean_ to do it?" Harry asked incredulously, stopping in his tracks. "How can you not _mean_ to do it? You promised that you would help, and then when the time came, you didn't. You spouted Hufflepuff nonsense when it was convenient, then as soon as you can get ahead you turn your back on it. On what grounds do you allow yourself to say that you didn't _mean_ it?"

"I-I don't know what to say," Cedric said. "I _am_ sorry."

"Words don't mean much when your actions don't support them," Harry said, tightly. "You cheated, and now you've been caught you feel guilty, and you want to feel better so you beg my forgiveness. You're not getting it."

Cedric stilled at his words, and Harry left him in the corridor, his feet leading him along as his mind was swimming with anger, his cane banging loudly on the stone floor.

They carried him from the library throughout the castle, the shooting pains up his leg forgotten as he paced away his frustration. He passed many people, all of which made way for him to come through, some even more obviously than usual; two or three of the lower years students yelped at the sight of him.

However, Professor McGonagall was under no such obligations. "Potter, a word." she said, as he found himself in the Transfiguration corridor.

As ever, it was very difficult to remain undignified in the presence of the professor. McGonagall had a way of looking at someone, as though they she were expecting better, that forced any lack of control out of you. It was formidable.

So, Harry did as she bade, limping into her office, and closing the door behind him. He took a seat opposite McGonagall's, her ornate desk separating the pair of them. Once again, Harry was struck by her office's warmth.

"Mr Potter, I wished to congratulate you on your performance in the first task," McGonagall said. "I do not think there are many people that could have done what you did."

"Thank you." Harry said, curtly, anger still buzzing on the edges of his mind.

"I must say, I had my doubts of the stories of the Helian magics." Professor McGonagall said.

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "Helian, Professor?"

"Oh- forgive me, some historical scholars, particularly those who were occupied with rigour in magical use, have called it that," McGonagall explained. "It isn't a popular term; in fact, I believe certain masters use it in derision."

"Why would _Helian_ be deriding?" Harry asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Well, the term was first coined around the same time that the philosophical concept of Rationalism was born. The Northern Magics were not rational; they were not intellectual, or deductive. They relied on belief, and faith and will," Professor McGonagall said, her tone even and bordering on lecturing. "As a result, much of their study was written off as worthless. The name Helian, as in of Hel, was meant to mock, as such Pantheonic views of the Gods were seen as ridiculous. To be of Hel was to be, in their eyes, a moron."

Harry nodded, though his eyes still held confusion. "But why Hel?"

Professor McGonagall allowed a small chuckle to escape her. "It is quite humourous, actually," she said. "The name 'Northern Magic', while aptly describing where exactly the magic was born, is not in truth the correct name. The initial translation was incorrect."

Harry could not have leaned further forward in his seat if he tried. "So, what was the original name?"

"Well, rather than magic of the _north_ , it was magic of the _sky_. Of the _heavens_ ," Professor McGonagall told her enraptured audience. "You may have heard it being described as the most natural of magics. What is more natural than death?"

Harry eyes were wide in shock. "So it is a magic of Hel?"

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "Perhaps, but not in the manner that you imagine," she explained quickly. "Your magic, the wondrous magic you can create, is not a magic of evil or ill-intent, but a celebration of nature. It is not a dark art, but entirely the opposite."

"But I did kill a dragon with it." Harry said, the beginnings of worry forming in his heart.

"So you did," McGonagall agreed. "But it was not malice that fueled your effort. It was fight or flight. Kill or be killed. With other dragons, you may have been able to come away without such damage, but with a being like that Horntail, it would not be possible. They are simply too _primal_. Its death was a celebration of nature, and nature is not always beautiful. The Helian magics may have great power over life and death, but they are not perverse."

Harry nodded to himself, understanding dawning.

"If I may ask you something?" McGonagall queried, to which Harry acquiesced. "How were you able to do it? To call forth the Helian magic?"

"I don't know," Harry replied, truthfully. "I simply did."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "How perfect," she said. "Now, I did not call you in here simply to discuss etymology," she adjusted her glasses. "There is another matter of great importance that we must discuss; the Yule Ball."

"I've heard about it."

"I'm sure you have, Mr Potter, it is a highly important occasion," McGonagall said. "Now, as you have heard of it, you will no doubt know that you and your date are to be opening the ball with the champions' waltz."

Harry nodded. "I do, but I have a question regarding my date actually," he said. "Are there any restrictions on who I might take?"

The professor shook her head. "No, not at all," she said. "You could take your grandmother Euphemia, if she wasn't spinning in her grave at the thought of being at a ball in the first place."

Harry smiled in spite of himself. "So they don't have to go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked.

"No," said McGonagall. "On many occasions, participants have taken parents or other family members if they were well respected and there were no eligible matches. You are free to do as you wish."

"Thank you, Professor."

"I trust your leg will be healed by the time of the ball," Professor McGonagall said, her lips thin and pursed. "It is very difficult to perform a waltz while hopping."

* * *

Despite his quest to avoid Cedric and his hypocrisy, Harry found himself in the library once more, though this time it was on the invitation of Hermione.

He got there, and was set upon, immediately hugged by Hermione, almost knocking the cane from his hand in her fervor. "Oh, Harry, I can't believe how well you did!" she said. "You were brilliant! I've never seen magic like it."

"Thanks." he mumbled, quietly, as he waited for her to let go of him.

"I knew your future was going to be Transfiguration," she gushed. "You're like Dumbledore! Well, not exactly like Dumbledore because he can do wandless magic and he has a phoenix, but still! You were amazing."

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" Harry asked, not yet sat down, even as Hermione returned to her seat.

"Well, actually, I was wondering if I could maybe have your help with something?" Hermione asked.

"Of course, we're friends." Harry said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Right, you're absolutely right," Hermione said, biting her bottom lip as her eyes scanned the room nervously. "So, I was wondering; what did I do wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"When we went out, what did I do wrong?"

A flash of worry ran through Harry. "N-nothing. You did nothing wrong," he explained. "I thought we agreed that it was a failure of communication?"

Hermione nodded, unsatisfied. "We did, you're right," she agreed. "It's just there's this boy that I quite like and I'd like him to take me to the Yule Ball and I want to make sure I don't do the wrong thing to scare him off."

A feeling of relief flooded Harry at the news.

Harry chuckled nervously. "I'm not sure I'm the right person to be talking about this with," he said. "I'm hardly an expert on dating."

"Yes, but you have first-hand experience with the issue at hand," Hermione said, her movements almost manic. "You are perfect for the job. So, what should I be doing?"

Harry thought for a moment, his hand running through the mess of hair on top of his head. "Hermione, just be yourself," he said finally. "He'd be a fool to say no."

"Well there must be quite a lot of fools about then!" Hermione exclaimed. "No boys ever like me, and I really quite like this one. I want him to like me back."

"And he will," Harry said. "Who is he?"

"I'd rather not say," Hermione said, her eyes at her shoes. "Anyway, enough about me; who are you planning on taking?"

Harry smiled slightly. "Well, I was actually planning on asking Tonks."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Hermione asked, worry lines forming.

"I think so," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "I can't hide my feelings forever."

"No, you can't," Hermione agreed, though the worry lines did not disappear. "I hope she says yes."

"So do I," Harry said. "I think she might."

"If you two were the same age, I'd have no doubts," Hermione supplied. "It is just that she is so much older."

"How old is the person you like?" Harry asked, out of sheer curiosity, though his jaw did clench.

"Well, _actually_ , here's the thing," she began, her voice high and nervous. "He's eighteen."

"Excuse me?"

" _Eighteen_." Hermione said, her eyes firmly on the floor.

"I thought you'd said that," said Harry, wryly. "And eighteen is so much better than nineteen?"

"I suppose not," Hermione mumbled. "It's just he's _so_ wonderful, and intelligent and brave and talented and it feels like nothing else matters."

"Welcome to my world." Harry said, his voice dry.

"To be fair, I am very mature for my age." Hermione said, entirely ignorant of how incredibly childish she sounded saying such a thing.

"According to who?"

"Well, most of the teachers I've ever had," she said, once more totally without self-reflection. "Plus, I am intelligent and driven and have clear goals and aspirations."

"I'm not so sure that's the same thing as being mature," said Harry. "But I wish you the best of luck."

"Well what else could maturity be?" Hermione asked, her face scrunching up in thought.

Harry paused for a moment, allowing the question to flow over him.

"I always thought it was the ability to react with context," Harry said, his words slow and measured. "Say if something bad were to happen, it's not _not_ _being sad_ over it, but rather being sad but also understanding that things will get better. Or something makes you angry, that you don't have to scream and fight people because it would be better solved by thinking about why it made you angry. Maybe its just that not everything has to happen immediately, and things shouldn't happen immediately, because more time allows more reflection."

Hermione herself didn't respond immediately; a myriad of emotions washed over her as Harry had spoken, though mostly it was offence that was overtaken by curiosity.

"Do you think you're mature?" Hermione asked, softly.

"No, not really," Harry said, without pause. "I don't think anyone's ever 'mature' or even 'mature for their age'. It's a process unique to you, and if you ever say to yourself that you're mature you're only making yourself less so by thinking it."

"You've given this more thought than I have," Hermione admitted. "I need to think more about it."

"Then again, maturity could all just be nonsense," Harry said. "It's all situational."

Harry looked down, and realised that he didn't have a book of any kind open in front of him, and took out his notebook from his bag. It was the one book that was simply for the odd thoughts that occurred throughout the day; some of the pages were just the doodles that Harry did when he was bored.

However, very recently, he'd started compiling ideas of how he could possibly ask Tonks to the Yule Ball. To begin, he'd written intricate ideas of how he could do it; flowers and music and gifts. Strikes were quickly drawn through those; they just weren't right for Tonks.

After that, things had gotten quite weird. He'd thought of designing a spell that would earn him a mastery and calling it the Tonks conjuration. Or, with his offer, he'd thought of giving her the necessary forms to change her name from _Nymphadora_. Or, he'd thought of stealing some of her hair, brewing Polyjuice potion and going into her workplace and finishing all of the paperwork she never wanted to do. They were all fun ideas, but again they weren't going to work.

He really was out of ideas. Harry knew that _how_ he asked would probably not change her mind, provided he actually spoke the words without passing out, but he wanted Tonks to be able to look back happily at it. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it; Tonks was special, and the way he asked her out should be too.

"Hermione, in an ideal world, how would you dream of being asked out?" Harry asked, causing Hermione to shoot up, her attention diverted from the homework she'd began to work on.

She tapped her chin thought. "I don't really know," said Hermione. "Something personal only to me and the person asking, probably. Something that only the other person and I would understand. Does that help?"

Harry's eyes brightened, his green eyes near glowing. "Thank you, that's perfect," he said. "You've been wonderful."

Hermione was just about to respond, when all of a sudden her breath hitched, her pupils dilated and the brightest grin he had ever seen her wear appeared on her face. Before his eyes, Hermione's world stopped spinning for a moment; a new reality dawning before her very eyes.

Harry turned to see who she was looking at, and was amazed to see the usually stoic face of Viktor Krum's face transformed. Gone were the dead eyes, instead replaced by those alight with a fire the likes of which he'd not seen. The corners of his mouth upturned, though it was not in joy, but in utter astonishment. An utter astonishment of what life had allowed him to have, and to see. An absolute amazement that he was allowed to be blessed by the sight before him.

The pair of them were in a world of their own, and Harry knew then exactly what he had to do.

* * *

It was in the late evening, a few nights later, that Harry's plan finally came together. Some of it relied on circumstance and hope, and he begged all that could hear that it would work out. If he could fight a dragon on only hope and his own will, then he could do this, couldn't he?

The first part of his plan involved the long walk to the southern wing of the castle; a pain with his leg being in the condition it was, but hardly a massive problem. The corridors brought back memories of the last time he'd been there, with half of Slytherin on his heels, silent and vengeful. This time he remembered to bring the Marauder's Map, though.

Harry's heart was pounding in his chest, his lungs all but ready to fly out through his rib cage. It was not like the other times he'd ever felt that before though; it was not fear that caused his body to work into overdrive, but a wonderful excitement. He felt, as he made his way through the castle, that his feelings felt much too large for the body he possessed, and that he was fighting a losing battle to contain them all.

His goal, though, was the fireplace that belonged in the Alchemy staff room. That was the key to the entire plan; without that, it was futile. This was the part that was make or break.

If Tonks answered his fire call, then he things should be okay. It was an unknown fire, and she was an auror; he just had to hope that she did answer.

With shaking hands, he threw floo powder into the fire, the telltale green flame providing more cause for the prickling of anxiety in his sternum.

He steadied himself, taking one, two, three deep breaths.

"N-Nymphadora T-Tonks." Harry said, his voice quiet and unsure, before sticking his head, rather counter-intuitively, into the fire.

At first, there was nothing. Silence was born, and Harry's heart was going faster than he could ever remember; faster than it had when he was fighting the Horntail even. He knew that if she rejected his entry, he'd be pushed from the fire, and his mind began to imagine an invisible force softly begin to push him backward.

The silence was deafening, and the period that he had to wait felt truly eternal. The seconds crawled forward like legless turtles, and he did not know how long he could possibly handle it.

Harry feared the worst in those agonising moments. Perhaps it had all been a trick of Tonks' and she was just pretending to like him and enjoy his company, and this rejection was the final pay-off. Or even worse, that she was with another person that she cared for so much that she'd forgotten about him entirely.

However, he was wrong.

Very wrong.

From the infinite abyss came hope, as the blackness before his eyes was replaced with Tonks' front room. And then, from the room came his favourite sight in the world.

"Who's there?" Tonks asked, her eyes squinting slightly to look into the fire from across the room. "I mean, I don't remember ordering pizza, but it _has_ been a long day."

"I-It's not pizza." Harry said, his voice quiet.

"Harry? Oh Merlin, it's you!" Tonks exclaimed, her eyes bright with surprise, her hair turning from a deep brown to a vibrant violet. "What are you doing in the fire? Come in!"

Harry's heart slowed, the racing slowing to something that wasn't so painful. He did as she asked, stepping through the fire.

The very second he got through the fire Tonks rushed to him, hugging him closely; he melted into it, feeling the anxious energy melt away as she held on to the back of his shirt.

"I've missed you," Tonks said, his cheek to his chest. "I know it's ridiculous and it's barely been a week, but God is life boring when all I do is work, and not get to see you."

"Think of the good you're doing, though." Harry said, her words earning a smile from him.

"Damn, you're right," Tonks said, grinning in spite of it. "Why is it you're here, by the way? Other than make my week much less awful."

Harry grinned back, though his was mostly nerves. "W-well, I have a proposition."

"Ooo, what kind of proposition?" Tonks asked, slightly amused. "You should be careful, Harry. Girls love a good proposal."

Harry's eyes grew wide at the implication, though that was averted when he saw the toothy grin Tonks gave him, amused at her own words.

"Well, I didn't really know how to say it, so I brought something to do it for me." Harry said, briefly stepping away from Tonks to reach into his back pocket and taking out a piece of blank card, which he gave to Tonks.

"This is a piece of card," Tonks said, blankly. "It's a _lovely_ piece of card, don't get me wrong. Very thick, very strong, very sturdy. I'm just a little confused as to what on Earth it means."

Harry smiled and, with his wand, he tapped on the back of the card, bringing it to life.

Before Tonks' eyes, the card burst into colour and life. Where once there was only white card, now there was a scene. Harry had spent every waking moment of his life for the past few days thinking and creating it; agonising over it. He had drawn, charmed and animated it all by himself; he'd wanted it to be perfect.

The card first showed Harry, as he himself had drawn, shirtless and covered in blood and grime, with cuts all throughout his body, his hands in the air. Then, the card showed Tonks, beautiful and pristine, though she had fear in her eye as a wand was pointed to her head; a wand pointed by none other than Snape.

But then, as all hope appeared lost, Harry began to laugh manically. Snape, at a loss for a words, joined him, and the pair of them laughed like fools. Unseen before then, Malfoy stood beside the scene like a voyeur, laughing along with them.

The moment Snape's hand even began to twitch, Harry sprang into action. A word left his lips, and Tonks dived away from Snape; before the oily man could think to respond, Harry reached onto his back, where upon a holster was stuck, and his wand was _hidden_.

Faster than anyone had thought possible, Harry snapped off two spells; one to Snape, and another to Malfoy. Malfoy was sent into a pillar, unconscious, and Snape was sent flying backward, further than Harry had anticipated. So far did he fly, that he broke through the glass window pane behind him, sending him falling into the ground below.

Tonks, in vain, tried to stop him from falling, but her efforts were fruitless, and she and Harry watched as Snape fell to the floor from a tremendous height, his body splatting against the concrete ground below.

From the lifeless body of Snape, the blood of his body flooded out. From the blood, a message was spelled out. And it read:

 _Tonks, will you go to the Yule Ball with me?_

The real Harry watched as Tonks stood, enraptured by his creation; her mouth gaped open by the sights she was seeing. And then, all of a sudden, her head shot up, her eyes bright and green and beautiful.

" _Of_ _course_ _I will_ , Harry." She said, her voice soft and affectionate.

Harry near-flung himself at her as an _unfathomable_ joy filled him, her words bringing him a happiness greater than ever before. He held her closer than he thought possible, feeling her body against his.

In that moment, he wanted nothing else.

"I'm so happy you said yes," Harry whispered as he held her.

"There was never going to be any doubt," Tonks said. "You're _Harry_. I'd've done anything for you."

"And you're _Tonks_ ," he said, smiling against her hair. "Did you like it, by the way?"

Tonks pulled back slightly, her arms still around his waist. "Are you joking?" she asked, incredulously. "I just got asked on a date through the medium of _Die Hard_. How could I do anything other than _love_ it?"

Harry gave her a grin that could've blinded her. "I knew it was the right choice," he said. "I didn't think I'd be able to get the words out otherwise."

"Do I make you nervous, Harry?" Tonks asked, a teasing grin playing on her lips.

"Not nervous," Harry explained, smiling down at her. "Excited."

"I'm glad," Tonks said, her hand gently gliding up and down his sides in a way that made sparks shoot up his spine. "It'd be hard to dance with me, otherwise."

"Oh God, _dancing_." Harry said, ominously.

"Oh God indeed," Tonks concurred. "We are going to look like a right pair of berks out there."

"I can think of worse people to look a berk with," Harry said. "Have you ever danced before?"

"Sober? No," Tonks said, chuckling. "Aren't we going to be waltzing as well?"

"Sounds horrible, doesn't it?" Harry said, rhetorically. "I really wish I wasn't a champion and we didn't have to dance."

"Well, I don't," Tonks said, earnestly. "If you weren't a champion, you wouldn't have asked me and I wouldn't have gotten this cool picture which I'm keeping and framing, by the way. So what if we look like idiots?"

Harry smiled. "You say that now, but when we fall arse over teakettle in front of every important person in the world, you'll think otherwise."

"Well, it's certainly one way of getting on top of me." Tonks said, teasing, as Harry's cheeks turned red.

It was then that the kettle went _ping_ and Tonks sprang away to make herself the cup of tea she'd forgotten about.

"Do you want one?" she asked, to which Harry nodded. "How long do you wanna stop over?"

"Can I stay the night?" Harry asked.

" _Of course_ ," said Tonks, as though it were obvious, handing him a boiling hot cup of tea. "I actually have something for you, too."

"How?" Harry asked, bemused. "You didn't know I was coming."

"Well, _technically_ it was part of your Christmas present, but I've just now been informed about how amazing you are at gift giving and I need to up my game, so this gift doesn't cut it," Tonks explained, sitting down on her sofa, inviting Harry to join her. "It's still amazing, it just doesn't quite cut the mustard."

"You didn't need to get me a Christmas present." Harry said.

Tonks gave him a look of absolute bafflement. "And why on Earth is that?" she asked. "You're getting a present from me, and it's gonna be amazing, and you _will_ love it."

" _Fine_ , if you insist," Harry replied, rolling his eyes jokingly. "So, what is it?"

"Well, it is tied in to your earlier gift, actually," Tonks began. "Harry, if I were to ask you what was the one thing that would make your world better, what would it be?"

"Snape is dead."

"No."

"Not being in the tournament?"

"Nope."

"World peace?"

"Try again."

"Not having to deal with other people?"

"Not quite."

"For you to just tell me?" Harry asked, huffing out a breath.

"Close, but no cigar." Tonks replied, smirking.

"Well, I give up." Harry said, settling into the sofa, dragging Tonks' blanket over him as he got comfortable.

"What if I were to tell you that the finest thing in the world, _Die Hard_ , is not a stand-alone film," said Tonks, her voice _giddy_. "What if I were to tell you that Bruce Willis has starred in _Die Hard 2: Die Harder_?"

"I'd say why are we talking about it, and not watching it right now?" Harry said, his voice just as giddy.

"Well, that's the thing," Tonks said, leaning toward Harry. "I have now bought a copy of Die Hard 2, and we can watch it right now!"

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Harry asked, mock-exasperated. "Put it in!"

Tonks leapt from the sofa and placed a new cassette into the VHS, before returning to Harry's side, climbing under the blanket and against Harry. She placed her head on his shoulder.

Harry knew then that he would never forget that night, and neither would Tonks.

Nothing could take that night away from him.

* * *

 **So, there it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it, and feel free to leave a review letting me know what you thought.**

 **Until next time!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hi all!**

 **Here's the next chapter - I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you thought and leave a review.**

 **I really appreciate your reviews. They are by far my greatest motivation.**

 **Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

The Yule Ball was fast approaching, and with it came Christmas.

Ordinarily, Christmas for Harry was an easy time of year; perhaps even the most serene time. He, having incurred his relatives scorn by virtue of existing, would spend the holiday at Hogwarts, the castle far less crowded that time of year, as almost everyone else went home to see their families. Usually, Christmas lunch was spent with the professors and one or two equally unfortunate students.

However, with the festivities of the Yule Ball, almost all of the other students had elected to stay at the castle until Boxing Day, and return home thereafter. A joyful excitement had filled the castle in the days of Advent as a result, with decorations strewn about the castle in a manic frenzy. Hogwarts seemed to come alight with the feeling; the halls felt warmer and the fires burned longer. Even the stones beneath him weren't quite as cold.

The library of Hogwarts was more alive than ever at that time of year. Where before, it was a cold and academic space, as Christmas approached it was transformed into a place of comfort and wonder. A burning fire dominated the room, with decorations adorning each and every bookshelf. Madam Pince had not changed, for she still prowled about the library with a scowl fixed upon her face, but it seemed her domain had.

In times like this, Harry was reminded of the _warmth_ that magic could create. Unlike the heat of a normal flame, its heat was not oppressive, nor did one feel the need to flee from it after a time. The magical flames of Hogwarts seemed…welcoming, almost, in their nature. As though they were not forces of destruction, but homeliness, and rejuvenation.

When he was younger Harry had read in an Encyclopedia from his school library that he had discovered and loved about fire ecology, and the need of certain environments for flame, and for fire. About how, without such a thing, their being could not continue, or would not thrive. He thought then, in front of that rejuvenating flame, that it was not just the flora and fauna of a savanna that so desperately needed fire.

Many scholars of elemental magic did not share his opinion. Much of the spellwork associated with fire was of a wrathful and furious nature. Scholars of the Renaissance period longed for nothing more than to call forth the cursed flame of Hell; hence, Fiendfyre was born. A fire poisoned with dark magic, and created with the sole intention of death and pain.

Then, in reaction to the cruelty of the Witch Trials, wizards developed what was known to some as the 'Slow Flame'. A fire born not of nature, but again of the evil of man. A fire that burned abnormally hot, yet crept along the flesh of its victim, so that they may be eviscerated, but not before they were begging for death.

It seemed wrong, when in front of the wondrous flames of a Hogwarts hearth, for such people to have performed such perversions on an aspect of nature so vital. Without fire, the people of the world would not survive, and yet so many could only see the very worst in it.

Such a view was not universal, however. The cleansing flame; the flame imbued with the magic of those pure of spirit, and with good intention, was born of a need to clear sights of dark magic use. If one developed mastery over the spell, it was postulated that the cleansing flame could dispel ghosts and malevolent spirits.

The warlocks of the Northern Magics had their own opinion of fire. Their feelings were not unanimous, as no feeling could be, but their view was mostly dichotomous. Those that lived their lives by the sea, where fire was cause for fear and ruin, found pain in fire. And through that pain, they found strength. They formed magics that birthed storms, not of water and mist, but of fire. Great infernoic tempests that ravaged boats and settlements and stone.

On the other hand, those that lived in the cold of their homeland found comfort in the fire. With their magic, they wove spells of home, and of safety. Spells, that when cast on the hearth, imbued the home with a warmth that Odin could not shift. And when they were attacked by warring tribes, they looked to fire for protection, and protection they received.

For it is proposed by those that studied the history that Northern Magics were not just offensive, but also protective. It was a buried secret, for modern wizards of rigour wished only to paint the Scandinavians as savage wild-men, but Harry found it.

With thoughts of safety and home, their wizards created great barriers of magical flame, for which it was near-impossible for harmful magic to trespass. For the truly talented, it was possible for one to dress themselves in a cloak of such a flame, a beacon of safety and a guardian to their people. According to their texts, this cloak was an expression of one's soul; one's inner being. And, if one were not careful, and poured their entire being into the fire, one's self could burn along with the cloak.

However, what this magic spoke of initially was the improvement and rejuvenation that one could experience through the fire of the hearth. The warmth that spread through our bodies, a warmth so comforting it feels as though it soothes the bones of your body, was not simply just warmth. It was the magic of the fire, spreading through the body, and offering its energy to you.

Harry, therefore, was set adjacent to the fire of the library in an attempt to do exactly that. The texts spoke of the fact that such an effect would only be effective when one felt at _home_ , and nowhere felt quite like home as much as the library of Hogwarts, when it was quiet and sparsely populated, with the chill of the evening in the air.

With his wand hand, Harry reached out to the fire and felt the warmth spread through his skin. Yet, he attempted to see beyond that; to see through the physical, and into the arcane. Beyond the comfort of the heat, there was an inkling. It was small, but it was there. The smallest imaginings playing upon the edges of his consciousness; the faintest touch of the magic that he so believed to be there.

He closed his eyes, and allowed the feeling to build within him. He did not force it, or attempt to subject his will to the flame; instead, he allowed the magic to _be._ To exist within himself, and to take its place within himself.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the fire began to take root. Where once there was a seed, now there was a sapling. In his mind's eye, he could see the fire grow and in his bones, he could feel the warmth spread. A thousand aches and pains seemed to be soothed as it ran through him, alleviating his worries, and removing the invisible weight that was once fixed between his shoulder blades. Even his leg, broken and damaged, was healed ever so slightly by the flame; the inflammation beginning to fade, the tightness beginning to loosen.

For a moment, he felt at peace, and had a clarity with the world. He may have a mountain to climb, and the future may hold bleakness and danger, but in that moment he was simply a person. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing played upon his mind except the fire before him, and the flame inside him.

Harry opened his eyes, and the colours of the world seemed to be all the _warmer_ as a result. The darkness was less severe. Harry then realised that he was not alone; it seems, in his musings, he had not noticed the arrival of Neville. And yet, even as he noticed the other boy, the prickling of anxiety that so often plagued him did not occur.

"Hi Neville," Harry began, the corners of his mouth upturned. "What's up?"

Neville grinned, mostly to himself. "Not much, just curious is all," he said, taking the seat beside Harry's. "What was it that you were doing?"

"I think it's a form of meditation, though I'm not sure," Harry replied, sinking slightly into his chair. "I just read about it in a book, and thought I'd give it a try."

"Looks like you were having the time of your life. I've never seem you look so calm," Neville said, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Considering the Ball's next week, it's probably a good thing you found it. You need something to keep you calm."

Harry smiled. "True. I'm hardly looking forward to it," he said. "Actually, I have a question about the Ball if you wouldn't mind?"

"Fire away." Neville said, grinning to himself once more.

"So, I know the dress code of the Ball is formal robes, but what exactly are formal robes?"

Neville chuckled, low and deep in his chest. "I take it you didn't get yourself a set when you went to Diagon in summer?" he asked, to which Harry shook his head. "Well, it doesn't really matter then. Wizards are quite odd, I'm told, when it comes to clothes 'cause formal robes don't have a strict definition. It's not like Tuxedos that muggles wear. As long as it looks presentable, and befitting of the event you're attending, the style of it doesn't matter. Some families, like the Malfoys or the Notts, seem to set themselves in the period of time they first became truly respected; for those two, it would be the seventeenth or eighteenth Century. Some families, like the Weasleys, wear robes owned by their predecessors so as to emphasise their family bond."

"What about your family?" Harry asked, a quizzical expression on his face.

"Well, that's a interesting question," Neville said. "It's actually a point of contempt for my family. Some people, like my Uncle and Grandmother, like older styles because they want to emphasise their lineage. Others, like my Mum and Dad, I'm told wanted to wear modern styles, often almost-muggle styles, to show their forward thinking. I think I might follow in _their_ footsteps, myself."

"You know a lot about this."

Neville laughed. "By necessity, rather than interest," he said, leaning into his chair. "Merlin, if I could get the hours I spent listening to my Grandmother drone on and on about that, I would."

Harry nodded, smiling a little. "Thanks for helping anyway."

"I like teaching," Neville said, shrugging his shoulders. Harry began to stand, but stopped when Neville leaned in, his voice low. "By the way, your Dad and your Godfather used to wear muggle suits to this sort of thing; my Gran used to drone on and on about the disgrace of it all, saying how that was the sort of person you ought not to be."

Harry smiled in thanks, grateful for the knowledge. "Thanks, Neville."

"Just remember to save me a dance at the Ball, Harry." Neville finished, winking at Harry as he left.

* * *

A thought had formed within Harry, and it had been there for quite a while. It was the matter of Christmas, though more specifically, it was the matter of Christmas presents.

By long-standing agreement, he and his relatives did not participate in the tradition. Harry thought it was, in some ways, a good thing; it would put a dampener on one's day if they were to open their stocking and find coal, after all. And since he'd never really been close enough to anyone to give gifts, save Headmaster Dumbledore, he'd never needed to buy presents for anyone.

However, with Tonks in his life, he found himself in need of doing such a thing. Luckily, the last Hogsmeade weekend was the weekend prior to the Ball, providing him the perfect occasion to buy something. The only problem, really, was that Tonks knew that it was a Hogsmeade weekend, and she was working because of it. Which meant that he'd have to sacrifice time with Tonks in order to buy her a present. Thankfully, with it being the last weekend before Christmas, everyone and their mother was buying their last-minute presents in Hogsmeade, so she was going to be kept fairly busy.

With it being as busy as it was, even Harry's efforts in waking up early did not afford him his own carriage; instead, he was lumped together with three girls in the year below, their choice in clothing suggesting they were members of Hufflepuff if colour was any indication, which it often was. It took them a good while to notice who he was, but after that their attention could focus on nothing else, the air of the carriage filled with their whispers.

Harry near-vaulted from the carriage, bum-leg and all, in an effort to evade the group. He no longer walked with a cane, but each step was taken with a pronounced limp, and so his walk through the village was a painful one. He avoided the main street of the village and the more popular paths through the wood that surrounded Hogsmeade; the ground beneath him was loose and unsure, making his strides all the worse.

His first point of call was, as always, the stationary shop just on the outer edges of the village. It was almost empty, as usual, save for one resident of the village. He'd half expected to see Hermione there, arm-in-arm with Viktor, but he was rather glad he didn't. He doubted he could've withstood the awkwardness.

However, his relief was rather short lived, as upon leaving the shop he ran directly into Fleur, sending his newly bought papers and parchments to the ground, spilling out onto the white snow that had fallen the night before.

"Oh, ' _Arry_ , I am so sorry!" Fleur said, with a gasp. "Please, allow me to buy you a replacement; it is the least I could do."

"It's alright, Fleur, it's not expensive, don't worry." Harry said, tight-lipped and quiet.

"Then all the more reason to allow me to replace them, _non_?" Fleur asked, and Harry took the path of least resistance, and nodded, walking back into the stationary shop with Fleur in tow, earning a displeased frown from the lady serving him.

"So, what was it that I had the misfortune of destroying?" Fleur asked, as they walked in between the stacks of parchment.

"Oh, just some paper."

"As in muggle paper?" Fleur questioned. Harry nodded. "Why is it that you are buying such a thing?"

"Oh, I just prefer it to parchment," Harry said, short of telling her the truth. "You really don't have to buy me some, it's honestly okay."

"Oh, I insist now. Christmas is the season of giving, after all," Fleur reasoned, nudging his shoulder with her own. "Think of it as a _very_ early, very small gift if you prefer."

"Okay," Harry replied, pointing Fleur toward the small stack of notepads stuffed into the back corner of the shop; the only reason the stack did not have dust on its top was because Harry had disturbed it earlier.

Fleur bought and paid for it without incident, save for a larger-than-usual frown from the shopkeeper; she smiled prettily in spite of it, before handing off the paper to Harry.

"Now, Harry," Fleur began, her blue eyes staring up at Harry, and a ball lead found its home in Harry's gut. "I know I have already troubled you today, but I was just wondering if you would possibly show me around the village?"

"Actually, I have some things I need to get; maybe another time?" Harry said, his body already in motion to take him elsewhere.

"I promise I won't be a nuisance," Fleur said, her voice girlish. "It is just that your village is wonderfully quaint, and I wish to see it in full."

"Truthfully, I think there are better people for that job," Harry said, his body still pointed away from the stationary shop, and by extension, Fleur. "I don't come to Hogsmeade very often."

"Then we can learn together," Fleur said. "I simply wish to walk around the village; would it be so awful if you kept me company when I did so?"

Harry shook his head. "I suppose not." he admitted, earning a radiant smile from Fleur.

" _Magnifique_ ," she said, her voice all the more delicate in her native tongue. She extended her arm, as if to link with his. "Shall we?"

Harry nodded, placing his new notebook in his satchel, and stuffing his hands into his hoodie. Fleur took that as an invitation, and linked their arms together; Harry's hands clenched within his pockets.

"So, ' _Arry_ ," Fleur began, leaning into his shoulder ever-so-slightly. "Did you ask your Tonks to the Ball?"

"I did." said Harry, his limp more pronounced with Fleur holding on to him. He could have leaned into her, to gather his balance for she had stationed herself on his weaker side, but he steadfastly elected against such an act.

"And what did she say?" Fleur asked, her voice light and airy, as if her very being was ready to float into the sky at any moment. Harry thought it contrasted starkly with the person she had been, only a few weeks ago.

"She said yes." Harry said, curtly.

Fleur, however, exploded in joy beside him. "Oh, that is _wonderful_ , ' _Arry_ ," she said, an odd tone in her voice. "I knew that she would! You must be thrilled!"

"Yep." Harry said, his eyes focused upon the one shop that simply needed to find that day.

Fleur rolled her eyes beside him. "Where is the passion, ' _Arry_? Surely you are excited?" she asked, rhetorically. "This is your love we are discussing, and you talk as though we are discussing cauldron bottoms."

"Believe me, I am." Harry replied, the sign for the jewelry shop appearing in his eye-line as he turned the corner into one of the side streets spawning from the main road of Hogsmeade.

"So why is it as if I am trying to pull blood from a stone?" Fleur asked, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

Harry faltered. "Just distracted, I suppose," He said, a hand running through his hair. "So, I'm just going to go to this jewelry shop here; I won't be that long."

"I'm sure a woman can find something to entertain herself with in a jewelry shop, ' _Arry_ ," Fleur replied, following him in. "I will be like a ghost."

Harry nodded, and worked to his fullest to ignore her as he meandered through the various pieces for sale. It was a second-hand shop, as he doubted he could've afforded anything otherwise, and Tonks often wore borrowed jackets and skirts; she called them 'pre-loved'. They seemed to suit her far better than anything else.

Wizards, it seemed, loved gold. Every necklace, every bracelet, every ring was gilded with gold; one had to wonder where they seemed to get all of it. As a result, gold jewelry wasn't quite as expensive, but it looked all the more gaudy.

Still, despite some of the designs being clearly magical, as they had designs that no hand nor machine could possibly manufacture, all of it felt so terribly mundane for Tonks. It was all just metal; some designs were beautiful, of course, but it felt _cold_.

Behind him, he heard a shop assistant bounce over toward him, her footsteps loud. "Is there something in particular you're looking for, or just looking in general?" she asked, with a youthful smile.

Harry could feel Fleur's eyes on him from across the shop. He took a deep breath, then leaned in. "Is there something less… _gold_?" He asked, his words sounding ridiculous even to himself.

The shop assistant, however, cocked her head to the side, and let out a small giggle. "Of course, we have pieces made of silver, of white-gold. There's even some hand-made ones with charms on them."

"Could I take a look at those, please?" Harry asked, and the smiling girl lead him into the shop counter. She stepped behind, and from underneath the counter she pulled out a small collection of simple, hand-made necklaces.

"So, is this gift for someone special?" she asked.

"Very."

The girl beamed even brighter. " _Wonderful_ ," she said. "I like that you're looking for something a little more personal; shows you care. So," she pointed at a pear necklace. "This is available. Real pearls, to my knowledge," she pointed at another one that looked like something his Aunt Petunia would wear, to which Harry shook his head.

"Is there anything a bit more simple?" Harry asked, quietly.

"Well, we might have _something_ ," she said, leaning down once more, pulling out a simple necklace, with a cord loop, and one simple charm at its end. "This is quite simple. And, its maker placed a special charm upon it; if the wearer is thinking about you, you will feel a warmth in your chest. This only works for you; no-one else will feel anything. The same is true in the opposite direction as well."

Harry smiled. "It's perfect, I'd like to buy it."

"Wonderful, I'll just go and get the box and you can pay."

After this, Harry left the shop, the small box in his pocket; he never wanted to lose it, or lose contact with it. His hands constantly grazed it in an effort to reassure himself.

And, as almost as if by magic itself, as he opened the door out into Hogsmeade, there Tonks was, slouching against a tree, boredom pouring from her bones.

Though, as soon as she saw Harry, her eyes brightened.

"Thank God you're here," said Tonks, rushing over to see him. "I swear if I get one more kid asking me out, I'm gonna kick off."

Harry smiled, rolling the box in his hands unconsciously. "Been busy?"

"Hardly," said Tonks, rolling her eyes. "Nothing ever happens here. The highlight of my day so far was watching a group of seventh years slip on ice in unison, and fall on their face."

"Was it funny?" Harry asked.

"Oh, _hilarious_ ," said Tonks. "Just not really what I thought I'd be doing with my life."

The pair of them turned, then, as the shop door opened once more, and Fleur came out.

"Oh, there you are ' _Arry_ ," she said, before her eyes met Tonks. "And you must be Tonks; Harry's told me a lot about you."

Tonks looked at Harry, who tried with every muscle in his face to provide a look to show that he hadn't told her a thing. Tonks smiled, though.

"I'm sure he has. You know Harry; loves the sound of his own voice, this one." Tonks said, and Harry smiled.

"Yes, he was actually in the middle of showing me around the village." Fleur told Tonks.

"You were?" Tonks asked. Fleur nodded emphatically. "Well, far be it from me to interrupt your time together."

Before Tonks could walk away, Harry stopped her. "Actually, there's something I need to ask you; it's about the ball. Partner stuff."

"Partner stuff?" Tonks queried, an eyebrow raised.

"Partner stuff," Harry confirmed, turning to Fleur. "Perhaps I can show you around another time."

"I'd like that, ' _Arry_ ," said Fleur. "Let it not be too far away."

Harry scampered away, Tonks following with an amused smile upon her face.

"Most people usually run _toward_ Veela, not away you know," Tonks said, when they were beyond earshot of Fleur. "What on Earth was going on? I thought she hated you."

"She did," Harry agreed. "Ever since the trial happened, she's been very friendly and it's confusing. And distressing."

Tonks laughed. "Maybe she wants a friend."

"She didn't before," Harry said, furrowing his brow. "She keeps offering to help; she even offered to be my Yule Ball date."

Tonks gave him a quizzical look. "And you turned her down?" Harry nodded, and Tonks smiled with affection. "You are unlike any bloke I've ever met. You have a beautiful girl chasing you and you don't care."

"She was horrible to me before the trial, and just because she feels guilty she wants to make it up to me," Harry explained. "It doesn't seem like a good idea."

"Well, it does seem quite strange," Tonks said. "Do you think she's trying to manipulate you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, before she just dismissed you as a kid," Tonks said. " _Obviously_ , she was wrong. Now that she knows what you're capable of, she's trying to make you see her as a friend, and not competition."

"That seems a bit far-fetched," Harry mused. "Maybe she _does_ want to be friends."

"Or maybe she's trying to, y'know, seduce you?" Tonks said, and Harry's face reddened. "I'm serious! You heard how she says your name all sexy and stuff." Tonks turned her hair blonde, her eyes blue, and made her hips flair out in a caricature of Fleur. Her voice became breathy, and she gave her words a French lilt. "Oh ' _Arry_ , won't you _please, please_ help me with this task? I just don't understand how to do it, and I need your _strong_ hands to do it for me."

Try as he might to prevent it, Harry was red in the face; an odd result, given most of his blood was probably elsewhere. "I-I don't think that's it."

"Oh my God! That _worked_ on you?" Tonks asked, bemused, her body back to its normal state.

Well, it _worked_ when Tonks was doing it, not Fleur, thought Harry.

"Look Harry, Fleur is a very beautiful woman, and beautiful women tend to get what they want," Tonks said. "Clearly you don't fawn all over her, but _clearly_ you think she's hot. You've gotta be careful with her. She might be a pretty face, but you can just tell behind that is a stone-cold bitch. I just don't want to see you hurt."

"I'll be careful, I promise." Harry said, his face no longer quite as crimson.

The pair of them walked through Hogsmeade together. The ice beneath his feet made Harry's footing unsure, and he slipped a few times, but Tonks was there to catch him.

"What made you say yes to showing her around in the first place?" Tonks asked, curious.

"She was persistent, and after a while it was easier than saying no."

"What, did she try and use her Allure on you?" Tonks asked, steering the pair of them away from a section of ice.

"I don't think the Allure works that way," Harry said. "Can we talk about something else? I'm trying to avoid her."

"Of course, Harry," said Tonks, her eyes brightening. "We can talk about Christmas, and what my present is!"

"I thought you liked surprises?"

"I like _causing_ surprises, not actually having them myself," Tonks explained, grinning. "So, what is it? Is it big? Is it small? I need to know!"

"And you will," Harry told her. "On December the twenty-fifth."

Tonks sighed. " _Fine_ ," she agreed. "Do you have any plans for Christmas?"

"Besides going to the Ball with you?" he wondered. "Not really."

"That sucks," Tonks said, offering a commiserating smile to him. "I remember the one year I spent Christmas at Hogwarts when Dad was in Canada with work, and all I remember was how awkward it was having Christmas dinner sat next to Trelawney."

"I always thought it was fun listening to her predict how the Turkey was _going_ to die, as it sat before us already cooked," Harry mentioned. Tonks laughed. "Plus, listening to some of the older ghosts calling us traitors to our heritage for celebrating 'Christmas' and not 'Yule' is great too."

"Have you ever had a good Christmas?" Tonks asked, offering him an odd look.

"I do actually like Christmas at Hogwarts," Harry reasoned. "But I've never really had the proper Christmas experience, no."

"I wish I'd mentioned it earlier," Tonks said. "You could've gotten to meet my parents."

Harry smiled slightly. "That would've been nice. Maybe next year," he said, hopefully. "And I'll still meet your Mum for the Occulemency stuff."

"Oh yeah!" Tonks remembered. "I talked to her about it and she said she'd be happy to talk you through some of the problems you're having in the new year. She said to send her a letter when you're ready."

"I can't wait to meet her." Harry said, earnestly.

"She can't wait to meet you," Tonks said. "She's been very curious about the sort of fourth year that can do the things with a wand that you could do."

"A lucky one, I suppose." Harry replied. Tonks rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"And when you meet her, you need to get her to make you dinner," Tonks said. "The woman is a genius at cooking. God knows why it never got passed along to me."

"She sounds lovely." Harry said, a warm smile on his face.

Seemingly by accident, the pair of them managed to find themselves at the door of the Hog's Head; Tonks shrugged at Harry, and walked in, ordering a Butterbeer for the pair of them.

"I actually did have some partner stuff I wanted to ask you about," Harry said, Tonks' head raised slightly in interest. "What colour were you planning on wearing? I just want to know for my robes is all."

"You really care about colour coordination?" Tonks asked, amused. "Whatever I wear will most likely clash with my hair at some point anyway."

"I just want the night to be special is all." Harry said softly, quietly.

Tonks gave him another look of affection. "It will be Harry, I promise. The colour of our clothes isn't going to change that," she said, gently squeezing his hand in comfort. "Now, onto the truly important matters; like what you got me for Christmas."

Harry smiled fondly. "Still not telling you." He said, his hand grazing the box in his pocket.

"Worth a try."

* * *

As the effects of winter became more and more prevalent in the days of December, Harry found himself further and further fascinated by abilities described by the Northern Magics.

For many days, he would sit beside the fires of Hogwarts, absorbing the flames' comforting magic. Each and every time, the soothing warmth that the fire provided would surprise, and enlighten him. More so than that, with each passing occurrence, the fire seemed to build within him, and process grew more and more familiar to him.

Furthermore, it seemed these days that the Northern Magics themselves grew more familiar. He had not performed them to a great extent immediately after the skirmish with the Horntail, having been too exhausted to do so, but as he re-introduced himself to their power, it felt as though the magics themselves were welcoming him as well.

Harry found it odd, actually. The _personality_ the magic seemed to possess. Unlike any magic he'd encountered before, it truly did seem to wish to express, and to be almost…opinionated with its expression. Some days, water-magic seemed to work far better than others, and other days it seemed that the Helian magics wanted nothing more than to shift the air around him. He wondered perhaps if it was simply an expression of himself, through the magic.

These days, he found that he wanted to perform no other magic but the Northern Magics. OWL books lay stacked by the wayside in favour of the tomes and texts born of Scandinavia, a thousand years ago. He ought to have been scouring them, searching for even the slightest clue for the second task, or for how to improve his work in preparation for his exams, but he couldn't find the motivation to do so.

One particular text caught his eye then, however, and it was the fire magic used by the Helian Mages. They spoke of the use of the fire's magic to provide the warmth Harry had felt, but throughout the entire room. Jarls and other high-standing nobles in their culture would request such an effect in their homes and mead halls, for no other comfort could compare to it in those days.

And in his room, he attempted to do just that.

The texts did not speak of _how_ exactly, as much like a lot of the knowledge of that era, the specifics were passed verbally, from master to apprentice. Nonetheless, Harry would not be halted.

He had taken one of the smoldering twigs from the library's fire, and brought it into his room, and grew his own fire from there, conscious of the power of the castle's magic. From there, he closed his eyes, the flame seemed to have a home inside of him now, no longer just in the centre of a room, but also within the centre of Harry. He fed it thoughts of safety, of warmth, and of comfort and watched it grow inside of him like a bonfire.

Before long, the soothing balm of the fire took over, and the weight of his body was lost from him. Gone the stress and strain, and the focus that was the fire was all that was left. Harry took that, and _pushed_ upon the fire in all directions.

The fire grew and grew, as did his oneness with the flame. For those moments, nothing else was in the world but himself, and the magic of the fire. He _longed_ for that feeling to fill the room, to fill the world around him then. With everything in his heart, he _forced_ the magic within him outward.

Then, something incredible happened.

As he did so, what felt like a blanket of pure comfort covered him, cocooning him in calm and clarity. Only being held by Tonks could begin to compare with the warmth he felt then.

"Harry, you're on fire." said Professor Dumbledore, coming from behind him, and immediately the feeling dissipated.

Harry opened his eyes, and the edges of his vision were blurry, as though he was looking through a wall of heat. Harry imagined he was. Nonetheless, he could see Professor Dumbledore standing in the doorway, his clothes all the brighter for the heat, though his face looked weary.

"Are you okay, Professor?" Harry asked, calmly.

"An odd question for a person formally on fire to be asking," Dumbledore said, walking into his room. He seemed taken aback with _something_. "But if I may be honest, I have been better. I must say however, you're room is incredibly welcoming. Strangely so."

"It's one of the more passive Helian Magics, Professor," Harry said, and noted the alarmed look the Professor gave that the name. "It's a curious magic."

Dumbledore wordlessly conjured himself a chair before Harry's small fire, and sank into it. "Curious indeed. I do enjoy hearing of the different views that different cultures can take. I take it your work here was fire-based magic?" Dumbledore queried, the academic within him shining through. Harry nodded. "How odd that these mages find such comfort in fire, where most when looking for comfort within the elements, choose water. They long for the peace of it, I suspect."

"I do love this magic, Professor," Harry said. "It speaks to me in a way most magic doesn't. Not even Transfiguration."

Professor Dumbledore gave him a kind smile. "I imagine it cares for you just as deeply, my boy," he said, sinking further into his chair. "A long time has passed since I last saw a student and a subject mesh together so well."

Harry smiled somewhat bashfully. "Did you have such a connection with Transfiguration?"

"I do, Harry," Dumbledore agreed. "It is a wonderful thing, is it not? Even in my age now, in the scarce time I find to ponder my subject, nothing interests me more. Still, even now, I long to think of new methods. New motions, new concepts. It will never leave me, and I adore that. I am home within it."

Harry smiled at the truth of his words.

"What gives me cause for happiness in your work, though, is that it further cements my thoughts on magic as a whole," Dumbledore continued. "As I have mentioned, many powerful and intelligent wizards still persist in thinking of magic as logical, and reasonable. It _may_ be that, but it is far more than that, and your success proves such thinking. Your work in the first task, an _unfathomable_ performance which deserves endless praise, is proof of what I have longed believed to be true. Magic is _alive_ , and magic does not wish to be tamed."

"Thank you, Professor," said Harry. "I've learned with the works of Northern Magics that I do not _possess_ magic. I feel as though when I perform what I perform, I am becoming one with magic. I am not a user of magic. I am magic _._ "

Dumbledore gave him a fond smile. "That is the truth of it all, Harry," he said. "Some live a hundred years and never discover that."

Harry took a seat on the floor of the room, comfortable despite being sat on hardwood.

"What was the initial reason for your visit, Professor?" Harry asked, eventually.

Again, the weary look of Dumbledore's returned, his blue eyes dulling. "I do suppose we must eventually discuss it," he muttered to himself. "This concerns the Tournament, and your entry into it."

"Has there been any progress?"

"I'm afraid there has, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "I have managed to work through the innate protections of the Goblet, and unfortunately the result is as I feared. Your involvement is Voldemort's doing."

A sinking feeling occurred within Harry's stomach. "That is not good news, Professor, but it's not unexpected," he said. "I think I've accepted that for a while."

"I'm afraid I'm not quite finished, Harry," said Dumbledore, with a sorrowful voice. "Whomever cast upon the Goblet used an illusion, not a confounding charm. This illusion asked not _simply_ for you to be called from it."

"What _did_ it ask for?" Harry asked, his mouth dry.

Dumbledore cast a sad look at Harry then.

"The illusion called for the true enemy of Voldemort to be called from the Goblet." Dumbledore said.

Harry was stunned.

"But how could that _possibly_ be me?" Harry asked, incredulous, the Headmaster's words not evenly remotely sinking in.

"That, Harry, I do not know," Dumbledore said, with a sigh. "What I do know, though, is that your involvement in this tournament may be catastrophic, should he get his way."

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed that; again, feel free to leave a review.**

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Until next time.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Here's the next chapter.**

 **I hope you enjoy it - let me know what you thought.**

 **Thank you!**

* * *

Harry awoke on Christmas day to find everything that he possessed, or that was currently inhabiting his room, was covered in tinsel and festive regalia. Overnight it had been transported from a mere classroom, to a proper bedroom. Somehow, a fireplace had sprouted from one of the corners overnight, a tree in another corner, and two boxes in the centre of the room. And, with a cursory check of his own comfort, he noted that the bed he was laying on was no longer his own creation, but a proper bed.

Dumbledore did always give the greatest gifts. And his gift on that year was the gift of comfort in his solitude.

After having his worst fears confirmed by the Headmaster, Harry had taken a long time to come to terms with the news. And yet even then, to know that you were the 'true enemy' of Voldemort was not something easily swallowed; he doubted it would ever sink in. He and Dumbledore had spoken a few times after Harry initially heard the news, and no clarification was forthcoming. He did not know whether it was simply the works of fate and prophecy, or a glitch in the magic of the Goblet, or a long-standing vendetta against his family.

Nonetheless, it would not be solved by worrying about it on Christmas day, and so Harry instead chose to open the presents he'd been given with a smile on his face. The first, smaller box was wrapped impeccably, with an enormous bow on top of it, and a note stuck to its side. It read:

 _Merry Christmas Harry_

 _I do hope you enjoy what I've done with your living space. In my humble opinion, the room_ _ **did**_ _need a touch of interior design. The fire carries a log from the Headmaster's office, do not fret._

 _In this box is a item that has been within the Dumbledore family for years. My family has a storied past, though in parts of it great good did come. In my lineage, there were many wonderfully thoughtful wizards, and throughout their time, they have recorded many of their finer thoughts in this journal. I myself have attributed to its tapestry; you will find my modifications to the Patronus Charm in there, for example._

 _As I have sired no progeny, and neither has my brother, I feared at first that I would be the end point in this journal's journey; a shame that I did not wish to happen. It was an amazing grace that you entered the halls of Hogwarts, and ensured that it did not._

 _I know you will bring about a change to our world, and it is my wish that such change is recorded within this notebook. There is no-one else that I would wish to continue my family's legacy._

 _Love,_

 _Albus Dumbledore._

Tears formed at the corners of Harry's eyes.

With admittedly shaky hands, he tore at the wrapping paper to find a leather-bound book, its front embossed with a coat of arms that Harry dimly recognised as the Dumbledore's. He turned to the inside page and found only one line of writing:

 _The world births wonders for we to find_.

Harry smiled, and carefully placed the new journal beside his bed. He knew that journal would occupy him for the coming nights. He opened the other box, tearing at the haphazardly used wrapping paper, and a note fell out.

 _Happy Christmas Harry,_

 _I know I've missed a few of these, and I really shouldn't have. I know I can't make up for the time that I wasn't there, but I know that I am going to be there for you now._

 _I'd just like to say congratulations on beating your dragon; by every account, you're more than making your parents proud. I know, if all is good and fair, that they are smiling down upon you._

 _Recently, I have moved back into my childhood home. It was where the Order met, and as such there were quite a few things that your parents had left there. Those things are in this box._

 _In addition to this, I have given you something that I think may be of use to you. It is a knife, equipped with an elegant charm that allows you to open any lock. It is incredibly anti-magical, and so will not be destroyed in any battle you may face. Do be careful with its edge though, it is incredibly sharp._

 _I hope to see you in the flesh soon, and that when I am free I can finally know you._

 _Yours,_

 _Sirius_

For the second time in as many minutes, Harry's eyes pricked with tears. He looked into the box, and as Sirius said, there were two separate gifts. One, a large box filled with clothes and odd sundries, and the other a holster with a handle poking from it. From the size of the handle, it looked more a dagger than a knife.

However, Harry immediately began to rife through the box from his Parents. His father's clothes: jackets, suits, jumpers, jeans, robes. A pair of glasses, identical to the pair Harry then wore. A hair bobble that, if Harry did not soon get a haircut, he may soon be in need of. One of his mother's necklaces; a simple, gold pendant.

The true gift though was to be found at the very bottom of the box.

There sat, unassuming, a record player. His _parents_ record player. Harry couldn't help but let a tears fall down his cheeks then. Tears of joy.

This day was going to be the best Christmas ever.

* * *

It was in the mid-afternoon that Harry made the Floo Call to Tonks' home; the Yule Ball started at 8 o'clock, and he and her had wanted time to exchange presents with one another.

Harry had spent most of the afternoon in an anxious fret over attempting to look as presentable as possible for Tonks. His hair simply did not wish to acquiesce to his wishes for it to lie still, and he stopped trying after an hour or so. And, after much deliberation, he decided upon wearing one of his father's suits, Tonks' gift filling his breast pocket.

As he walked through the fire, he expected to see Tonks, but found her living room empty; clothes littered the floor.

"Harry, is that you?" Tonks asked, her voice carrying through her apartment. "I'm just finishing getting ready, I'll be there in a few minutes; could you make tea for us?"

Harry walked the short distance to her kitchen, ever conscious of the box in his pocket. The act of making tea was a comforting process; the familiarity dulling the outer edges of worry that had formed in his mind. Boiling the kettle, then placing the teabag in the mug, then pouring the water into the mug, then adding milk at the end. A menial task that grounded him, that allowed him to allow him to fully grasp what was happening.

He _was_ going to the ball with Tonks.

The heat of the mug was pleasant to the touch; Tonks' apartment too cold as always. He briefly wondered if he could at some point apply the house-warming charms while he was there, but quickly realised he was far worse than she was at Charms anyway.

Despite the suit not being his own, it was not uncomfortable. The jacket fit him almost perfectly, the tie comfortable around his neck. His shoes clicked against Tonks' floor, and he fought the urge to pace.

"So Harry, what do you think?" Tonks asked, from her bedroom door.

Harry looked up, and he was _mesmerised_. Tonks was _breathtaking_ , her beauty world-shattering. She was a vision of utter wonder; Harry very literally forgot to draw breath. Her hair, long and ever-changing as always, framed her gorgeous face so perfectly that Harry's legs became weak. She wore a simply white dress, and she looked so absolutely, _unfathomably_ beautiful.

He dropped his mug in _awe_.

"You like it then?" Tonks asked, grinning a private, quiet sort of grin. Harry was seconds away from hyper-ventilating. "I didn't know I was hot enough to make someone break crockery. That's new."

"Y-you're _beautiful._ " Harry said, the words coming out as barely a whisper.

Tonks smiled, wide and full of glee. "You're not so bad yourself." she said, rocking on her heels.

The pair of them stayed in that moment; simply looking at one another. Harry doubted he could move if he tried; so paralysed was he by her beauty.

"I think we have presents for one-another." Tonks said, eventually. Harry was still absorbing how incredible Tonks looked.

Harry nodded, doubting his own ability to form words.

"Well, I think I'll go first," Tonks said, retrieving a box from behind the sofa that was before obscured by the clothes that she'd scattered around. "Now, I've known what I was going to get you for a while now. Ever since the first task, in fact.

"After seeing you with that Horntail, I knew that could never let you go through something like that ever again. I could never let you get trapped in a position you can't be able to escape from. That's why I got you _this_."

Tonks opened the box, and revealed a necklace. Had Harry's mind been fully functional, he'd have laughed at the serendipity.

"It's a Portkey," Tonks added. "Just so that you know that wherever you are, as long as you have this, you'll be safe."

Harry immediately put it on, tucking into his white shirt. "It's perfect." he said, feeling the cold gemstone charm against his chest. How appropriate that Tonks' gift lived there.

"Plus, you're an artist type, you _definitely_ could pull that off," Tonks said, smiling. Harry smiled back; his nerves smoothing over somewhat. "So, what did you get me?"

Harry chuckled uneasily. "Well, you're not going to believe this," he said, pulling out the box from his pocket, and revealing her necklace. Tonks immediately laughed. "I got _you_ a necklace, too."

"It's gorgeous, Harry," she said, admiring it in her hands. "Don't tell me it's a Portkey too?"

Harry shook his head. "No, it's got this charm. You erm, you don't _have_ to have it activated or anything, and you can get it dispelled or whatever," he said, clearing his throat. "Anyway, it's got this charm where if we think about each-other, the jewel on the end warms up."

Harry looked at his shoes, worried to meet her eyes.

"Harry, that's _lovely_ ," said Tonks, a smile in her voice. Harry looked up to meet her eyes, affection pouring from her warm, brown eyes. "Would you put it on me?"

She turned her back on him. His arms reached around her elegant neck, wrapping the cord around and fastening it at the point where her spine ended, the scent of her shampoo filling his nose, the tips of his fingers brushing against her pale skin. The moment its pendant touched her skin, a pleasing warmth coursed through the pair of them, and never left.

Tonks turned, the pair of them face to face; barely an inch separated them. Her eyes were all the more incredible. Harry could've happily spent hours watching the swirling colours wander through the spectrum, the flecks of gold and bronze that could only be seen when one was sharing the other's air.

Tonks grinned. "Merry Christmas, Harry." she said.

Harry grinned back. "Merry Christmas, Tonks."

Tonks reached upward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, laying her head on his neck. His arms immediately held her waist.

And then, Tonks started swaying gently, off-beat and ill-timed, humming a tune to herself as she did. Harry followed her, swaying ever so gently along side her. Tonks' motion was awkward, and totally lacked co-ordination, but there was not a dancer in the world that was better then her then in Harry's eyes.

"Dancing isn't _that_ hard." Tonks spoke into Harry's ear, sending shivers running through his body.

"I might be wrong, but I think the dance we have to do tonight is a little bit more complicated than this." Harry said, smiling.

"You think we could get away with just doing this?" Tonks asked.

Harry shook his head. "You're not the one that has to answer to McGonagall about it for the next three years." Harry said, and he could feel Tonks twitch in his arms at his words. Harry found it odd.

"True enough," Tonks said, her voice awkward. "Anyway, how long until we have to be at the Ball?"

"About two and a half hours," Harry said. "How come?"

"Well, I know something that can fill the time," Tonks said, her voice returning to its natural cadence. "Wanna watch Die Hard?"

"Well, it _is_ a Christmas movie."

* * *

Harry and Tonks walked through the Headmaster's fireplace just as the hand of Harry's watch twitched to 8 o'clock; their arrival met with a kind grin by Headmaster Dumbledore. Tonks still had not forgiven him for the Triwizard Tournament, but there was no real animosity. There was a brilliant warmth to the room, and Harry smiled inwardly as it brushed against him.

"Ah, there you are," Dumbledore began. His robes seemed oddly tasteful, when compared to his usual choice in attire. "I must confess that I had began to worry that you were not going to attend."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Harry said dryly. "Thank you for your present, Headmaster. It was incredibly kind."

Dumbledore smiled. "There was never a doubt in my mind," he said. "I must say, your gift was utterly astonishing. It has been many a year since this office was altered magically, and to make it as welcoming as you have is wonderful."

"You're very welcome."

"Now, I believe I have a duty to attend to," Dumbledore said, begin to leave his office. "I wouldn't dilly-dally too long, you two. The other attendees would be aggrieved if they didn't see the finest couple on time."

Harry and Tonks both turned red at that; Harry's cheeks, Tonks' hair.

Dumbledore walked out of his office, leaving Harry and Tonks alone with their thoughts and one-another. The thought of the Ball became very real then, the burgeoning anxiety in his stomach beginning to form once more, but the presence of Tonks beside him made anything else feel so entirely pointless.

"Are you ready?" Tonks asked him, her ever-changing eyes inspecting him closely.

"Not particularly." Harry said, his hands clenching ever-so-slightly.

"Well, just remember this," Tonks said, taking his hands in hers. "I'll always be by your side."

Harry smiled, and offered Tonks his arm, which she took. He lead the pair of them the short distance from the Headmaster's office to the Great Hall, noting the festive decorations that filled the halls. He no longer limped as he walked, but his leg still ached especially in the cold, and so he had not walked the halls as often as he once did.

As the pair of them approached the hall, a million conjured decorations filled their eyes. Rose bushes, marquees and more fairy lights than there were stars in the sky. There weren't any other students milling around, the others having already flooded into the hall and taken their seats.

Professor McGonagall appeared out of the door, bustling over to the pair of them in an uncharacteristic urgency.

"There you are Potter," she said, by way of greeting. Then, she took note of Tonks, her eyebrows raising. "I assume Miss Tonks is your date, and that you're not being arrested?"

"Unless the crime is looking incredible in his suit, I'm afraid not." Tonks replied, smiling.

Professor McGonagall seemed shocked. "Well, I do hope you enjoy your time," she said. "Anyway, you are required in the ballroom. They are waiting for you."

Harry's heart accelerated; his head nodding jerkily.

McGonagall left as just as quickly as she arrived, and Harry tried to calm himself down, but he could not seem to calm himself down.

Tonks stepped in front of his eye line. "Harry, don't worry," she said. "No-one's going to be looking at _you_. They're going to be looking at _us_."

Harry nodded. If he just focused on Tonks and Tonks alone, the night might not go terribly.

They linked hands, and walked into the hall, the doors opening of their own accord. Harry doubted his heart could've pounded harder without physically breaking his ribcage.

The Great Hall revealed itself, entirely transported from it's usual appearance into a winter ballroom. Great ice sculptures of mermaids and dolphins topped white lined-clothed tables, decorative ice laced the walls and great spears of icicles formed from the ceiling. The very room seemed to _sparkle_ with the frost that covered it. However, most imposingly, where once the centre long-tables stood, there was now a dance floor in the centre of the room, and an orchestra to its side.

Harry squeezed Tonks hand. Tonks squeezed back.

Harry's legs no longer felt his own, his body carrying itself entirely without his control. Harry could see the other champions stood together at the far end of the Hall and it seemed his body was taking the pair over to stand with them. The other students parted from their path like ever-watchful trees in a woodland path, gawking at the pair of them without pause, their eyes never leaving Harry. He felt incredibly small under their watchful gaze; inconsequential, almost.

Nonetheless, with Tonks by his side, he knew that he would be okay. She stood by him, entirely nonplussed by the attention, the crowd's intense inspection not bothering her in the slightest. She was so unfailingly _strong_ in that moment, totally unable to be fazed or affected, that Harry was strengthened by it. He was in _awe_ of her.

Soon, they reached the others. Viktor and Hermione looked a fine couple, his stoicism emboldened by her energy, each fitting the parts that the other seemed to lack. Cedric, and a girl he vaguely recognised as being a member of Ravenclaw; he looked every bit the wizarding champion, tall and dark, with dashing robes and a regal air to him, though his expression turned cowed at the sight of Harry.

Fleur looked a picture of utter grace. She wore a ballgown, flowing from her neck to the floor, the elegance of her figure emphasised beautifully. Her blonde hair fell softly in waves like a gentle summer sea. By her side a witless man stood, his mouth split open, unashamedly gaping at her, though she did not care. Instead, her eyes focused upon Harry, smiling widely and happily, a proud look upon her face.

"Until I saw you I did not truly expect you to come," she said. "I must say I am glad that you did. You look very good in your suit, it is something more wizards should try."

Harry smiled slightly.

A look of recognition crossed over her face. "Do not worry over their stares, 'Arry," she said. "They do not possess enough value to deserve to effect you. They are not worthy of your worry. And, failing that, their attention rarely leaves me, and so it will flee from you soon enough."

"Thanks, Fleur." Harry said.

"Hello again, Madam," Fleur said, her eyes travelling toward her. "I am glad that you are the one accompanying him. You look wonderful."

"And I'm glad _I'm_ the one with him, too." Tonks said, an odd inflection in her voice. Fleur seemed oddly taken aback, though was prevented from a reply by the voice of Albus Dumbledore booming through the hall.

"Ladies and Gentleman, if you would take your seats!" He called out, and as quickly as he spoke the instruction, the assorted students of Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons sat down; even the teachers rushed to comply. He waved his hand and the light sconces on the wall were extinguished, and the great fire dimmed. With another wave, the ceiling became a starry night, the twinkling stars providing the light for the room. "Now, to officially open the Ball, the Triwizard Champions will perform the ceremonial Champion's Waltz!"

Tonks took Harry's hand, and lead him to a free part of the ballroom. He placed his hand at her waist, feeling her place hers on his shoulder blade.

Tonks gave him a grin, her bright eyes dancing. "Well, this is going to be horrible."

The orchestra began, and so did they. Harry's only focus was Tonks' eyes, for thought of anything else would've proved a poor idea. He knew that he was stepping on Tonks' toes, and that she was doing the same to him _infinitely_ more often. He knew they were off tempo. He knew that the other champions were making them look like fools for they were _infinitely_ more dignified than they were. But he didn't care.

All he cared about was Tonks.

Despite everything, her beautiful face still grinned the brightest grin he had ever seen; she put the sun to shame with her grin. Her eyes danced with finer form than they ever could hope to. And she made his heart beat the finest rhythm he had ever heard. And in that moment, he knew.

He loved her.

He loved her without doubt, thought, or question. He loved her totally and utterly and absolutely. Each and every bone in his body, every fibre in his being, every _inch_ of him loved her.

The world seemed to shift then, and a wondrous feeling came over him. For then, it became apparent that he had not truly been living until that moment. All the years he was alone, without salvation, without _her_ , were lived waiting for Tonks to arrive. And now that she had, it was his purpose to love her, and to live the best life he could with her. To be happy, with her.

Tonks became, somehow, even _more_ beautiful than he had thought before. She seemed to _glow_ with the wonder of it. She didn't appear real in that moment - she appeared to be something entirely out of his own imagination. She could not be real; it seemed impossible. Nothing could _ever_ be as beautiful as she was.

And yet, there she was.

The rest of the world fell away then. There was no-one else; the rest of the hall could've gone up in flames and Harry wouldn't have noticed. Nothing else mattered. The lingering anxiety fell away, and its absence was filled with a tremendous joy.

In what felt like seconds, the music ended, and he and Tonks came to a stop. Tonks was still grinning, and Harry grinned back. He and her walked to the high table, where there then was a large round table, where each champion and their date had a designated seat. He felt lighter than a breeze in the wind as he walked with Tonks' hand in his.

Harry took his seat, beside Dumbledore, with Tonks to his side, who sat beside Viktor and Hermione; the pair of them in their own world.

With another wave of Dumbledore's hand, food appeared, from nowhere, in front of everyone.

The other members of their table immediately tucked in. It was odd, Harry thought dimly, to be sat amongst the Professors to eat. The heads of the other schools sat at their table, as well as Alastor Moody - Tonks had spotted him the moment he sat down, and had began to talk excitedly to, Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick and Ludo Bagman - who had studiously avoided Harry's eyes the moment he sat down.

Harry's eyes, though, could not stop looking at Tonks. While he was eating, his eyes would unconsciously shift toward her. Even as she sat talking to Professor Moody she was just fascinating to him. He knew that he probably looked a fool, fawning so obviously over her, but he couldn't help it.

Beside him, Headmaster Dumbledore stood up.

"Now, I do hope you enjoyed your meal. I know I did," Dumbledore said, over the quiet din of knives and forks clattering. "However, I know you will no doubt this next treat far more. Ladies and Gentleman, may I present to you; The Weird Sisters!"

At once, a stage was erected from thin air, and on it there stood various instruments, though they appeared distinctly odd in comparison to their muggle counterparts. A guitar that had four necks, a drumset that only had the cymbals, a piano entirely missing the note 'G'. The only part that looked the same was the bagpipes; probably because they were weird enough to begin with.

An eruption of noise and cheering came as five men came out; each odder looking than the last. It did not buffet the tidal waves of screaming that came, though. Rather the opposite; the screams became rapturous. A crowd of people flocked toward the stage, shouting at the top of the lungs.

Beside him, Tonks stood up.

"Harry, I can't believe it! The Weird Sisters are playing!" She shouted over the din. "I'm going to listen!"

"Have fun!" Harry replied, cheerily.

"Do you want to come?" Tonks asked.

"No thanks," he said, looking over toward the enormous number of people surrounding the stage. "Not my thing."

Tonks understood. "I'll be back as _soon_ as their set is finished!"

Harry nodded, happily watching her enjoy her favourite band. Viktor and Hermione had also fled the table toward the The Weird Sisters, as had Cedric and his date. Many of the Professors had either stepped outside to escape the noise, or toward the dancing to ensure nothing untoward had happened, leaving only himself, Fleur and her date.

Harry noticed that, to the side of their table, there stood a table of other professors, as well as many former professors. Professor Trelawney sat there, bobbing her head to the music, as did Professor Sinistra. However, most notably, amongst them there was one man dressed in poorly maintained robes; his hair too long, his beard unkempt, his posture awkward.

Remus Lupin.

An odd rush of emotion hit Harry as he saw the man that his parents once called friend. A man that, according to Sirius, was once one of his Dad's best friends, a groomsmen at his parent's wedding, and someone who his father trusted without fail. A man, however, who was all of those things, and yet did not say a single word to Harry for the _year_ he taught him. A man who knew his parents, and said nothing. A man who allowed him to have to live at the Dursleys, despite being _fully_ able to take Harry in.

He just wanted to know why. And so, he walked over to his old Defense professor.

"Professor Lupin!" He called out, and the older man turned around, a look of shock falling over his face. "Would you mind if I talked with you, outside?"

Lupin looked like a spooked deer, but acquiesced nonetheless. The pair of them stepped away from the Great Hall, and into one of the hall's ante-chambers.

"What was it you wanted to ask, Harry?" he asked, a calm in his voice that was very forced. Harry was shocked he remembered his name.

"Why, Professor?" He asked, simply.

"I-I don't understand." he answered, apprehension on his face.

"Why didn't you tell me that you knew my parents?" Harry began, his voice quiet but growing stronger with every syllable he breathed. "Why didn't you talk to me at all about them? Why didn't you mention them _once_ in the year that I was taught by you? You must've understood how much _any_ memory of them would've meant to me.

"Why did you never ask about me in the years before I even _knew_ about magic? If you knew my Mum, you'd have heard of how much her sister _hated_ magic. You'd have heard of how much of a _freak_ she thought wizards. How much she hated magic for taking her sister away. _Surely_ you realised that she might not have been the best person to raise me?"

"I'm sorry, Harry I-"

"I don't care if you're sorry, I want to know why!" Harry shouted.

Lupin was silent for a moment, his eyes flickering toward the door.

"I thought you'd be better off without me." Lupin said, his eyes to the ground.

Harry swallowed. "Well, I wasn't."

Lupin left the room, leaving Harry alone once again. Harry heaved air into his lungs, the explosion of anger coming unexpectedly, and did not leave easily. It was a thought that he had been pondering from the moment he first talked to Sirius, and it showed.

Harry walked back into the Great Hall, an odd feeling filling him then. Lupin, it seemed, was just another person in his life that did not care about him.

He took his seat at the head table, where now only Fleur sat, watching over the concert occurring at the other end of the hall.

"Are you okay, 'Arry?" she asked as he sat down. "You look a little red."

"I've been better, but I'm not bad. I've just heard some news I'd rather not have heard, but I'm glad to have heard it. Makes things clearer." Harry said. "Where's your date?"

Fleur huffed. "He was not worth the air he breathes."

Harry's eyes looking toward the crowd in search of Tonks' hair.

"I could see that you were enjoying your Tonks' company," Fleur said. "It is amazing to see such reverence in a face without a Veela's charm being involved."

Harry smiled abashedly. "Yeah, she's great."

"I think your feelings run a little deeper than that, do they not?" Fleur asked, knowingly. "You _adore_ her, don't you?"

Harry was shocked that she knew. Especially when he himself barely knew.

He nodded.

Fleur smiled widely. "I could tell. Your eyes never left hers as you danced. Only a man in love could show such care in his gaze," she said, a joyful note in his tone. "Have you told her?

"Not yet." Harry said, a hand running through his hair.

"And why not?" Fleur asked immediately, animated. "Do it while you have the chance. A woman deserved to be told that she is loved. She is the one person in your life above all others. If you care for her as you do, she deserves to know."

Harry worried his bottom lip. "But what if she doesn't say it back?" he asked. "Or what if she laughs in my face or something?"

Fleur gave him a kind smile. "Is she not worth the risk?"

Harry was silent, for the answer was obvious.

The Weird Sisters' music ended, and they left the stage. Their stage left as soon as it arrived, and the orchestra began again, this time for the other attending students. None of the students came to the ballroom floor, too tired by the vigorous enjoyment of the band. Most of the populous had deserted the hall entirely to cool off outside; the quiet made Harry feel much calmer than before.

"Now 'Arry, if I could ask a favour of you?" Fleur asked. Harry nodded. "I have not managed to enjoy this ball thanks to the moron I attended it with. May I dance with you for a song?"

"Are you sure you want _me_ to do it?" Harry asked. "You did see me dance, didn't you?"

Fleur grinned. "I did," she said. "It isn't about the dancing. When I was a little girl, I dreamt of going to a ball and dancing with the most handsome man there."

Harry's cheeks reddened. "And that's me?" he asked, incredulously.

"With that suit it is," Fleur said, smiling. "Now, will you fulfill a girl's childhood request? Your _friend's_ childhood request?"

Harry considered her words. He supposed, with her pushing him toward Tonks, he'd call her a friend.

"Okay," he said, standing up. "But I will be terrible."

Just as he was about to leave the table, Tonks arrived holding two drinks. "Hey Harry!" she shouted, her ears not yet adjusted to speaking without the noise of the band. "Wasn't that amazing!"

"Yeah it was," Harry agreed. "Fleur wants to dance with me."

Tonks eyebrows raised. "Really?" she asked, before sighing, an odd look taking over her face. "Well, enjoy that."

"I'll be back soon." Harry promised.

"Oh no, take your time," Tonks said, smiling. "I'll get a chance to actually see how bad we looked dancing."

"I hope we entertain you." Harry said, grinning.

Fleur took his hand, impatiently leading him to the dance floor. She placed both of her hands on his shoulders, and Harry placed both of his at her waist, the pair of them gently swaying to the music.

"Tonks didn't like that you were going to dance with me." Fleur said, as they swayed.

"Really?" Harry asked, unbelieving. "I doubt that."

"I do not," Fleur said. "You did not see the look she gave me as you left."

Harry still appeared confused. "But that doesn't make any sense unless-"

" _Exactly_ ," Fleur said, cutting him off. "Let that sooth your nerves somewhat."

"Well, that is something," he said, conflicted, though he smiled. To know that she liked, but to know that their dancing was annoying her. "Thank you for telling me."

"You could dance another song with me," Fleur said, winking. "As a thank you."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Harry asked. "I don't _want_ her to be jealous."

Fleur grinned sheepishly. "Then do it to be a good friend," she replied. "I am enjoying this."

"Why though?" Harry asked. "Do you enjoy getting your toes stepped on?"

"You are _not_ stepping on my toes," Fleur said, glancing down to her entirely non-bruised feet. "But even if you did, you would not be doing it while staring at my chest. Unlike most."

Harry smiled politely and they danced another song, this time with one hand in the other's. However, as they danced, Harry could not help but notice a pair of eyes trained at him. A pair of eyes that he could not forget.

They were the eyes of the boy that petrified him on the day that Draco attacked him; the boy with the lightning quick wand-action. They never left him. Not once.

It was odd, as every other boy had avoided his eyes judiciously after what he'd done to Draco, and then what he did to the Horntail. And yet there he was, unfazed and entirely focused on Harry; almost unblinkingly so.

Harry ignored it, though. If the boy wished to attack him again, he could try. Harry would happily teach him a lesson.

Soon, the song ended, and Fleur hands dis-entwined itself from his. She gave him a smile.

"Thank you for that, 'Arry," Fleur said, genuine. "You are a good man - finer than any that I have met on this island. Get your Tonks."

Harry smiled back, and nearly _ran_ back to Tonks. She and Professor Moody had returned to talking animatedly about their shared vocation, though as he approached her attention diverted to him.

"Hey Harry," she said. "Auror Moody and I were just talking; he's a legend in the department."

"I'm retired, Tonks, and I damn well deserve to be a legend after what I gave," Moody said, his gruff voice cutting through the air. "Now then, Potter. Your performance against that Horntail was _damn fine_. You did what you had to; gotta respect that."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry replied stiffly. "Tonks, would you mind stepping outside for a walk with me? I just need some fresh air."

"Of course, Harry," Tonks said, before turning to Mad-eye. "Thanks for talking, Mr Moody. I really appreciate it."

"You've got talent, girl. They'd be damn fools not to see that," Moody said, scratching at his fake eye. "If that nitwit Dawlish gives you any grief, send me a letter. I'll sort him out for you."

"Thank you." Tonks said, standing up to leave with Harry, taking his hand as they left the hall.

The pair of them walked, hands intertwined, through the lawns outside the castle. A few couples were there too, though they were more interested in the dark corners of the castle to hide in, especially so as there were no authority figures in sight other than Tonks, and she did not truly count.

"Mad-eye was amazing to talk to," Tonks said as they walked. "He said he'd heard about me 'cause I'd graduated early like he did. He said he'd be interested in discussing the job if I'd wanted."

"That's amazing, Dora," Harry said happily. "I'm glad you're finally getting the respect you deserve."

"So am I," Tonks said. "With his support I might make senior auror before I'm twenty-five; That's unheard of!"

Harry rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand. "If anyone deserves it, it's you," he said, looking into her eyes. "You're incredible."

Tonks grinned. "Of course I am. I'm _me_." she said, and Harry grinned.

The path that ran through the lawn ended at the mooring point of the Black Lake; the place where every student entered Hogwarts for the first time. The beginning of it all.

The world looked so magical on that night. The still Black Lake without a ripple in sight. The rolling, snow-tipped hills and mountains in the distance. The snow that covered everything in sight, rendering the world a winter wonderland.

And the girl that stood next to him. The most magical girl in the world.

"Gorgeous night, isn't it?" Tonks asked, gazing out on the world. "I've never seen anything like it."

Harry's only looked at one thing, and that was her.

"Neither have I."

The faint glow from the stars made her look _angelic_. He could not believe the world could create something so awe-inspiring.

Harry took a deep breath.

"Dora, I have something to say." Harry said, looking into her eyes.

"What is it?" Tonks asked, looking into his. "It's not another gift, is it? Because I _really_ can't afford to buy you another one."

Harry shook his head, a light chuckle escaping. "No, it's not," he said. "It's just - these past months that I've known you have been the best of my life. Despite everything that's happened, despite the tournament, despite everything. And it's because of you."

Tonks smiled warmly. "Thank you, Harry," she said. "They've been great for me too."

Harry smiled slightly. "What I wanted to tell you is that - is that," he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. "You make every day I'm with you better. You make me happier than I've ever been, and you're the best person in my life. The days that I know I'll see you I wake up happy, and I know my day will be great because you're in it. You're just wonderful."

"What are you trying to say, Harry?"

Harry took her hand in both of his.

"I love you, Tonks."

.

.

.

Silence.

Pure silence.

Not a bird, not a whisper in the wind. No lapping of the water. No noise at all.

Harry could not draw breath, and Tonks did not want to.

With each passing second, Harry's heart quickened, and fear grew.

At last, Tonks spoke.

"Please don't say that."

"What?" Harry breathed out.

"Please don't say that," Tonks said. "Please don't say you love me. Please don't do that to us."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, utterly terrified.

"Harry, you can't love me," Tonks said, taking her hand from him. "You _can't_. After everything we've done, after all of it, you can't destroy it by saying that."

"What are you saying?"

"Harry, you are my best friend. You're my favourite person to be around."

"I'm so confused Tonks," Harry said, his hands clenching quickly. " _Please_ tell me what you mean."

"Harry, I care about you a lot. You're the first person I want to tell my news to, you're great honestly," Tonks said. "But you're _fourteen_ , and I'm nearly _twenty_. You're at Hogwarts, and I'm an auror with my own home. This _can't_ work. You are my friend, and I never want that to stop, but that's all you are to me."

Harry swallowed.

"Does that mean that you don't love me?" Harry asked, his eyes soft, his heart vulnerable.

Tonks was silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry Harry," she said, holding back tears. "No I don't."

Harry's world collapsed in on itself.

"I don't want to hurt you, Harry," Tonks said, tears falling. "You mean a lot to me, but this can't happen."

"Could you leave, please?" Harry asked suddenly, his voice quiet and soft and almost pleading. "I just need a moment. I-I-Could you just give me a minute?"

Tonks was already walking away.

"Of course, Harry," she said, walking up the path. "I'm so so sorry. This was not what I wanted."

Before long, she was gone. Harry collapsed to the ground. The world, once so magical, was dark and cold and dead.

And so he sat, on the ground in front of the Black Lake, and looked out into the night.

He looked out, and tears fell, and his heart shattered.

* * *

 **Have faith.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Hi everyone!**

 **With the nature of the last chapter, I made sure this one came out quickly.**

 **Thank you so much for your reviews, they mean the world to me. The last chapter was incredibly difficult to write, and I agonised over it for ages, but I was happy with the result, and I'm glad you were too.**

 **I hope you enjoy this one - I found it interesting to write.**

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* * *

After _that_ night was over, and the tears stopped falling, Harry was not sad. He was angry.

Harry dispelled the charm that tied him to her necklace. The last thing he wanted to know anything more about was Tonks' thoughts.

It all seemed so _pointless_ to him then. The days and hours he wasted _hoping_ \- hoping that Tonks could've possibly loved him. How totally naive he was to think someone like her could ever care for a person like him. It made all of it feel pointless.

He wasn't going to do it anymore. Going to Hogsmeade, going to the library to see Hermione or Neville. None of it was worthwhile. No-one was ever really going to be there for him, so what was the point?

And the worst part? He already knew that.

It was not some great revelation for him. Before he even knew what magic was, he knew that. The Dursleys taught him that lesson. They taught him that no-one could ever love him. That not even his parents could be there for him. That he wasn't worthy of love, or care or compassion. But the magical world managed to erode that knowledge.

Bit by bit, by showing him magic that made him feel awe and wonder for the world. If an eagle could be created out of nothing, _surely_ it was possible that someone could love him.

And Dumbledore, with his apparent worry and his compassion, impregnated his belief, and filled his mind with thoughts of love. Fed him the notion that he could possibly find people that would care for him. Dumbledore, who _lied_ to him, and made him go into the world and get hurt. But Tonks showed him the truth. Or rather, she reminded him of it.

In this life, the only thing you could rely on was yourself, and your magic. And that was what Harry did.

Endlessly, he poured over his notes on the Northern Magics. He became fascinated by their view of fire, though this time it was not the passive aspect, but the active. The chaotic and the destructive. The _wrathful_.

The great thing about fire is that, provided it's hot enough, it will burn anything.

The art that Harry drew. The clothes that he wore that smelled faintly of her. The metal casing of a necklace. All of it was destroyed eventually. The only thing that a fire couldn't burn away was the memory of it all. No flame could remove that. No flame could take away the happiness he once felt; a happiness turned bitter by reality. And that was not for a lack of trying, for Harry more so than most.

One of those texts stuck out in particular. It was the story of Brand, a respected Thane to a High King. A powerful mage and fierce warrior; he led his men on hundreds of raids up and down the coasts of Northern Europe. He was strong and unwavering, his thirst for victory and glory unparalleled. He loved his men, and his men loved him, as well as the four sons that fought alongside him.

One day, his King ordered him to raid upon a neighbouring kingdom. Brand, being a loyal man to his King, did as he bid. He and his men attacked at the shores of this kingdom's city. Brand, the fierce warrior that he was, made quick work of this city's defenses, breaking through its castle walls in a matter of hours, killing their warriors to a man, and taking his spoils of victory.

What Brand did not know was that it was a trap.

Their defenses were weakened in a gambit, and their men only enough to ensure that Brand did not question it. And, on the night after their supposed victory, as Brand and his men supped at their foes mead, the true attack began.

Their foe waited until they were good and drunk. And then they burned them alive.

The enemy king ignited the castle, fires of dark magic burning through the structure's foundations and scorching them as they stood. Only Brand survived, but not before having his arm burned away, and watching his four sons perish.

After the ordeal, Brand fell to madness, and he planned his vengeance. For months, Brand secluded himself from the world, grief and pain and magic his only companions. But he knew he would gain his revenge.

For Brand was learned in the Northern Magics, and his brush with the fire had taught him the value of flame. The value of destruction, and the price its victim paid. He simply wished to _hurt_ those that took his sons away from him. And hurt he did.

Brand unleashed a firestorm the likes of which had never been seen before or since. It was thought that the Aesir themselves could not unleash such devastation; that Brand's grief had allowed him to transcend the limits the Gods placed upon men, and become something _more_.

The fire tore through the kingdom that claimed his sons, rendering it little more than ash in the winds of change. No man, woman or child lived through his fury. Their entire world snuffed out without a single question or moment of deliberation by Brand. He felt no remorse, or regret. They suffered as he did.

And Brand was never to be seen again.

Some thought he died in its casting. Some thought he ascended into Valhalla upon which he became the God of fire; some even prayed to him for warmth in times of cold. Some thought he sat in Asgard even now, beside Odin and Thor, sipping mead and eating golden apples. But no-one knew.

Harry though knew one thing. He wanted what Brand had; to know destruction. He wanted to know the element so completely that such a feat was possible. To know all aspects of his own magic, not simply the beautiful and the kind. To know oneself was to know one's worst aspects, and Harry sought after that. He sought to truly know himself. To know his own nature. Other people would come and go like the wind, but there was strength and power in knowing one's _self_. And if you knew yourself, other people could never hurt you again.

Harry himself was blessed by his brush with the Horntail, for he felt its fire personally. He tasted the magical force of that dragon; the utter domination that poured from its being. It was _fire_ personified; the unstoppable force, the unquenchable rage, the indomitable spirit.

But Harry dominated the Horntail. He _dominated_ that fire. And he wanted to show the world his own fire - his own pain.

The classroom he once called home no longer seemed appropriate. It was too small, too personal and had too many memories. Memories that could not be burned away.

So Harry went walking.

A notable aspect of the grounds of Hogwarts is that they were far vaster than anyone realised. The peaks in the far distance did not belong to the land that muggles could see, but instead to the castle grounds, so Harry walked to them. They were only two miles or so away from the castle, but they lied beyond the forbidden forest, and few people ever thought to look beyond such an imposing place.

The cold was biting, the snow heavy and unfailing, the paths untouched for hundreds of years, but Harry didn't care. He just wanted to reach the top. He was immovable in the cold, unfailing in his efforts.

Because fire is not cooled by the frost; it _burns it away._

And as Harry reached the peak, he did not feel the cold. The frost did not bite at his skin. The chilling winds did not buffet him at all; his flame stood unmoved by the breeze. The snow was too light to even think about.

He closed his eyes, and brought forth the memory of the Horntail's flame. The heat of it; the pure destruction it could cause, and yet _he_ overcame that. He possessed the greater spirit; the greater _fire_. He called forth this spirit into his mind; his indomitable will. And if the Horntail was the greatest being of fire this realm could create, then Harry's flame was to be _beyond_ this realm.

With this spirit, he longed to bring forth the pain that he felt. He wanted to rid himself of that pain - to burn it from his being, and to cauterise the wounds of his broken heart.

He raised his wand at the top of that peak, and spoke.

" _Logi Brand Aldrnari_."

And from the Elder Wand, his _spirit_ came; fierce and indomitable and unwavering _spirit_ came personified within the Godly force of his flame. From within him, there came pain and chaos and _power,_ and a storm of fire was born from his magic.

Swirling torrents of flame billowed out from his hand, hotter than anything the world had known in millennia. A _primordial_ flame was resurrected in the Scottish wilderness that day, the likes of which unparalleled by anything else. There was not a single thing in this world that could withstand Harry's _force_.

The air atop that peak became _thick_ with magic, vast volumes of oxygen pulled in to the rampaging inferno, the pressure of the storm throwing the world into disarray. Any being that would step near his inferno would discover only agony, as the flame violently scorched its way through the world.

Harry brought wave after wave of focused, dominant power into the sky, his fire ascending so that the tip of his flaming tempest reached into the clouds. With prodigious control, he maintained this storm. It would _never_ outgrow his influence; he _possessed_ the flame, it did not possess him. The tip of his wand was a pure white; it was only his utter mastery of the Helian magics that prevent his being from being taken into the fire.

And, as the world around him bowed to his magic, and the flames ascended the skies and tore through the atmosphere, the pure _focus_ of the flame allowed Harry a blessed moment of clarity. Gone was the pain, gone was the struggles that his life had. He knew no pain in that moment. All he knew was his own power. His own _spirit_.

The feeling was addictive. To have peace, to strip away the pain and have only the power, was addictive - in that moment more than most. He had wished to burn away the memories, and he knew that all he would have to do was give into his towering inferno and he would get his wish.

The flames seemed to whisper to him then, telling seductive lies of how the flame would be his salvation. That all he needed to do was give in to the fire, and he would know true peace. But Harry knew better.

There was never going to be any salvation. Life did not have a salvation. Life was _pain_ and it was suffering, and it hurt you more than anything else ever could. Life was not kind, and life did not want peace. Life sowed chaos and agony to make its survivors stronger. And, beyond anything else, Harry was _strong_.

He was not a victim of the fire's seduction like Brand was. He was more than just a conduit of the flame.

He was the _wielder_ of the fire's power.

And the pain and the suffering that _his_ life held only made his fire all the stronger.

The firestorm metamorphosed then. The flames transformed - from a bright red to a glowing, _ethereal_ _white_ like a shimmering beacon of light and hope from the sky to the ground. The storm was hotter than ever, but he was not hurt. Rather the opposite - he felt _stronger_ than he ever had.

Harry felt the white flames drape themselves around his body like a second skin. It was not the flaming cloak that the Nordic warriors wore to protect their people - it was not fueled by thoughts of safety, but of destruction. It protected its wearer, but it would tear through all else if given the chance.

And as his flame gracefully covered his body, the storm that he birthed became one with him once more, the fire now residing within his spirit. From where there was once a monument to Harry's force, now there was just the wind. It left only the glowing white flame that Harry wore like a cloak, and a quiet strength that had come upon Harry, and would not fade.

Harry stood still - alone on top of the peak. Wind passed through the air around him quickly after the storm disappeared, bringing with it the winter chill. But Harry was not affected. The world could not hurt him then, and the cold could not touch him.

* * *

On the night of Harry's storm, Harry decided that he would not return to the castle until he needed to. The quiet solitude of his peak was a welcome refuge from everything else in his world. He knew that he could survive until the beginning of the next term without food, having performed a similar feat before he came to Hogwarts, and with the fire that grew within him, he knew that he would never grow cold. He had his notes for the Northern Magics in his jacket - he had everything he needed. And the world around him provided the myriad of ways to keep his thoughts from straying toward what had happened.

That night, Harry wished to forge a fire on the peak, the winter darkness falling quickly. He did not need the heat, truthfully, but rather something to look at. Something to stare into, and lose himself in. The Northern Magics spoke of a way of making a fire without even needing a wand, and he was eager to try it out.

It was, in essence, the reverse of the passive magic of the hearth. _Then_ , you drew the magic of the hearth into yourself, whereas in order to create a fire, one had to pass their magic into the world with thoughts of warmth and heat and home, and a fire was born. It did not warm you quite as a home's fire would, but it stopped the cold from snapping away your life. It was far safer than simply creating a campfire as well, as it did not require firewood; simply burning its own essence for days on end.

Harry closed his eyes, his palm outstretched, and he allowed his magic to flow through his hand, and _pushing_ it out into the world. He did not think of the library's fire as he did, or any of Hogwarts' fires. Instead, he cast his mind back to the feeling of the firestorm he created, the unbelievable heat he himself could conjure, and he allowed that thought to fuel his fire.

If one thought of home as a _place_ , or another person, all you could expect was pain. A building could burn down, and a bad memory could poison the safety one once felt there. And people - people always leave.

But, if one thought of their own selves as their home, or their _magic_ as their home, one would always _be_ at home. The only person that would never leave, and the only person you could ever really rely on to care for you was yourself. And that was what home meant.

Harry opened his eyes, and before him now stood a roaring fire. Rather oddly though, the fire was not red, but a dark, jade green. None of his notes had mentioned any altering of the colour of the fire, but Harry suspected its colour was in conjunction with the thoughts of the wizard casting. Perhaps, much like bluebell flames and fiendfyre, it was just another curiosity of magical fire.

Nonetheless, the dancing of the flames before his eyes was fascinating to Harry. The gentle swaying as the wind was soft, the frantic movements as a strong breeze passed overhead. The fire stood, buffeted by the wind, but it did not move, and it was not extinguished, no matter the strength of the wind.

Soon though, Harry found himself in desperate need for water, the scorching heat of his magic serving to dehydrate him deeply. The ascent to the peak was not a spectacularly steep one, and so it was not difficult to descend in search of a stream or a spring. He had a passing thought to use the water charm, or to call forth a torrent using the Helian magics, but decided against it. Harry found that the water conjured through magical means tasted peculiar, and God only knows what the effects of drinking something as heavily magical as the Northern Magics would be.

He followed along the path that brought him to the peak to begin with, his wand acting as his torch. It was an old, gravel path that carved through the hills and grasslands between Hogwarts and a settlement beyond the peak that had long since moved to assimilate with Hogsmeade; the path being the last memory of it ever existing in the first place. However, for all he could follow the path, the terrain itself was deeply unfamiliar, and Harry was forced to rely on chance rather than knowledge to find water.

Harry was close to giving in, and waiting until the sun came up to search once more to look for a stream, but he stopped himself as he saw something come alight before his very eyes.

Along the path, in the darkened distance, were two glowing lights brighter than the stars in the night sky. They shined through the wilderness, and seemed to call to Harry, wishing him to come toward them. Harry knew that he ought to have been wary, but there was an innate _purity_ to the light that Harry couldn't help but trust.

Slowly, with his wand extended in front of him, Harry walked toward the lights. He had no idea of what it was, but he was curious. Could it be another person, or was it just his imagination?

He didn't know, but he wanted to.

With every step, the lights grew more and more bright and clear to his eyes. And as he reached the edge of the path, he discovered exactly what it was.

It was a deer.

A buck, in particular. It was young deer - a fallow deer, if Harry recalled correctly - not quite in its full maturity, but it looked to have a winter or two in its lifetime. Its antlers were large and looked strong, its coat chestnut. But its most striking feature were its _eyes_ ; they were a deep, magnificent blue. The buck had eyes that held the purest blue Harry had ever seen.

However, as Harry approached the deer, he realised that the deer was not simply standing on the path. He was sat at the top of an oak tree, its legs entangled within its branches. Harry had absolutely no idea how he managed to get up there, or why he was there in the first place, but there he was, eating upon the few sparse leaves that had not shed in the winter.

"Do you want to get down?" Harry asked, though he felt a fool for doing so. The deer held his eyes though, and Harry might have imagined it, but the buck seemed to incline its head ever-so-slightly. Harry sighed, and raised his wand, hoping that this was not the night he felt what it was like to be kicked by a deer.

" _Wingardium Leviosa_ ," Harry cast, his voice soft and level, and the deer was raised from the tree in an instant, and Harry carefully floated him to the ground. "There you go."

The deer's eyes were wide as his hooves touched the ground, but it did not bolt away from Harry as he imagined that the buck would. Instead the buck inclined its head ever so slightly, and Harry knew he did not imagine it that time, before slowly walking out into the woods, walking as though he wished for Harry to follow.

Fascinated, Harry followed him.

And he was glad that he did, for it was not very long before the deer stopped, and Harry happened upon the clearest stream of water that he had ever seen, and he guessed perhaps the world had ever known. The water was so unfathomably clear that Harry first thought it was magical, or that he was simply imagining things.

The buck dipped its head and drank from the water, its tongue lapping at the stream. Harry conjured a goblet, and filled it from the water, and took a drink as well. The water was as crisp as the night air around them.

Harry was almost ready to turn and walk back to his fire at the peak, when he realised that the buck was looking at him again, almost expectantly. And as Harry began to find the path that would lead him to his camp, the deer followed his footsteps.

Harry stopped where he stood. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your family?" he asked the deer. "I'm sure they would worry if they didn't see you," Harry pointed out to the woods. "Why don't you go back and find your family?"

The deer looked down to the ground, and he didn't follow Harry as he walked back up the path to the peak. Harry was glad; the deer was special, and his mum was probably worried about him.

And, as Harry reached his fire and found its green flames still burning ever-brightly, he hoped the deer found its way home.

* * *

The next morning, Harry woke with a sore neck, and his fire still burning as brightly as ever.

Amazingly though, he was not cold. Frost had fallen overnight and the land that surrounded him was frozen, but he did not feel the frost on his skin. The fire billowed out heat incredibly; so much so, that a circle formed around the fire that held no sign of the cold. Even the goblet of water from last night had not frozen over.

His stomach growled out its hunger, but Harry did not pay it any mind. It was only discomfort, after all.

Harry retrieved his notes from his jacket and, as he often did, he read over them once more. Filling one's mind with knowledge was a far better alternative than letting his own thoughts fester.

He had with him both the original inscriptions and his own translations; his own translation for clarity, and the original as sentiment was often lost in translation. As Harry read more and more on his beloved subject, and the more Old Norse that he understood, the finer his understanding of his love became.

However, the point of interest he found himself analysing then was their concept of _understanding_. _Vit_ , as they knew it. Before, as Harry had only used his own translation, he knew not what they meant by that. In his mind, to understand magic was to use it, and to comprehend its concepts.

As he learned to read their scripts, he truly learned what they meant by _Vit_. Within the Northern Magics, to hold a true understanding of their magic, one did only have to accept its concepts, but _live_ within them. It was not alike the Transfigurations that were prevalent within the modern world, where the user only had to accept what was happening and allow the magic to simply percolate through the mind.

A master of the Northern Magic must _live_ within the magics. One had to _become_ part of the nature, and not force oneself onto nature. To allow magic to exist, and to not to wish it to alter it in the search of your own gain. To accept the beauty of nature, and never destroy it. To understand the balance the world must live in, and never wish to tip the balance in your own favour. But above all, to understand one's self; your own nature, and belief, and position within the world.

Only then could one _understand_ , and master the Northern Magics. And through that understanding, almost anything was possible, provided you had the will to achieve it.

But just as soon as Harry lost himself in his thoughts, was he distracted by a voice from behind him.

"So, this is where you've gotten to." Albus Dumbledore said, appearing from thin air, though Harry was not acutely aware of his surroundings, so focused was he on the text before him.

"You might have thought if I went so far away from the castle, I might not have wanted any company." Harry said, his eyes not leaving the parchment in his hands.

"True though that may be, often we receive things we do not want, that help us anyway," Dumbledore replied, taking a seat next to Harry's fire. "It was not difficult to find you. Firestorms that stretch into the sky are not inconspicuous."

"Why are you here, Professor?" Harry asked, abruptly. "I just wanted to be alone, and to have some peace, and you're preventing that."

"I'm here because you are a student at my school, and you may be unsafe out here," Dumbledore said softly. "And I worry for you, Harry."

"It seems your duty of care is quite selective, Headmaster," Harry said, whispering into the wind. "You weren't quite as worried when I was selected when the Goblet chose me, or when Neville ran in to fight a basilisk, or when Quirrell ran about the school for a year as Voldemort's agent. And yet you're here, worrying over my safety."

Dumbledore sighed, taken aback. "I'm incredibly sorry that you're in the tournament. As with the other events, you know as well as I do that those things were beyond my control, and had I thought it the best course of action, I would've solved them immediately," he said. "I thought you understood that our world was best served if Neville had the chance to be its protector."

"As I think on it, I'm not so sure now," Harry said, looking directly into Dumbledore's eyes, challenging. "I struggle now to see a world that is best served by a child being its protector. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"

"Because when I'm gone, the world will need another person to look toward, and Neville will be that person." Dumbledore said, his voice heavy.

"But you aren't gone yet, and you have shunted a great deal of responsibility on the shoulders of a person too young to even apparate by themselves." Harry said, his voice rising.

"Had I not thought it necessary, or if Neville did not _wish_ for the challenge, I wouldn't have done it." Dumbledore reasoned.

"But he doesn't _wish_ for it, does he?" Harry asked, his jaw clenching. "I spoke to him about it, you know. He hardly seemed thrilled with his lot in life. You should see him this year with me being in the tournament; how happy he is now. He's literally Hermione's equal in lessons this year. And it's all because he doesn't have the weight of the world on his shoulders."

"He may not _like_ it, but within himself he realises that he has a position within our world that is his duty to fulfill," Dumbledore said, before sighing. He outstretched his palms. "Harry, I understand that you have gone through pain recently-"

"You _understand_ nothing!" Harry said, interrupting, the fire before them flaring. "Don't condescend me, and don't pretend that this is all just me lashing out because I'm hurt. It's not. You're playing a game that you ought not to be, Dumbledore."

Dumbledore stood. "I'm going to leave you be," Dumbledore said. "Nothing good comes of a conversation born from anger."

"Thank you for leaving." Harry said, before returning to his text, his hands clenched around the parchment.

* * *

That night, Harry walked once more in search of the river from before, this time more to soothe his body of the cramp he'd began to feel after sitting still reading before the fire for so long, and because the agitation he'd felt after Dumbledore's visit had not left him, and he wished to try and walk it off.

However, he couldn't find the river. He didn't know how; he followed the way he'd taken the night before, but it just did not seem to be there. It did not make any sense to Harry.

Yet again, just as he was about to give in and inspect the issue the following morning, the glowing blue eyes of the buck appeared before him. This time, he was not stuck upon an oak tree; instead, he was standing in the middle of the path. He almost seemed to be _waiting_ for Harry.

Just as he did last night, the buck led Harry to the stream. It was just as clear and as beautiful as it was before, and the water was just as crisp and delicious.

"Are you the keeper of this stream?" Harry asked the deer, quite seriously. Nothing else seemed to add up. "Because if you are, I'm happy that you're letting me drink from your water. It's very kind of you."

The deer just looked at him then, its huge, innocent blue eyes staring up into Harry's jaded green eyes. It was unlike staring into the eyes of any other animal that Harry had ever known.

There was an undoubtable intelligence to his eyes. But more than that, there was understanding. He looked at Harry, and he _understood_. It was almost unnerving to see in a deer.

For reasons beyond Harry's understanding, he felt compelled to _speak_ to the buck.

"You know, in one of the myths that I read about, there's a story about a deer like you," Harry said, sitting next to the buck, talking directly to the deer. "In Norse myth, there's a story of this deer that sits on top of Valhalla. You know what he does?" Harry asked, feeling ever-so-slightly ridiculous at asking a deer a question it couldn't possibly answer. This deer felt different, though. "He sits on top of Valhalla, and he eats at the leaves of a tree that grows in Valhalla called Laerad, and his antlers glow a vibrant blue, and they produce the dew that fills the world's rivers."

Harry took a sip from the beautiful water in his goblet.

"I think his name translates to something like Oak-Thorny or something equally terrible, so if you are that deer I'm sorry about your name," Harry said, his head looking skyward as he tried to remember the deer's actual name. The buck that sat next to him began lapping at the stream. "Eikthyrnir! That's its name!" Harry looked at the buck again. "Or your name, rather. Much cooler in Norse."

Harry stood up, once again preparing to walk to his fire, and to read his notes and see if he remembered the story correctly.

But again, the buck sat up with him, and began following him up the path to the peak.

Harry turned and faced the deer, who sat down upon the path. "You can't come with me, Eikthyrnir," he said, looking into his innocent eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm probably not the person you want to be hanging around with. Most people tend not to want to stick around very long."

The deer just blinked up at him.

"And I'm sure your family is worried about you, and they want to hang around with you," Harry continued, running a hand through his hair. "I bet all your loved ones want to see you, and your mum would want to see you again. Why don't you go and see them instead?"

Harry left, and the deer stayed where it sat.

* * *

Days after Harry first lit the fire, and it still burned as brightly as when it first formed.

Harry was surprised; most accounts spoke of the fire lasting for a night, not for several. Harry wondered perhaps if it was his storm that allowed it to happen; his understanding of the element expanded by it, and allowed him to forge such a long-living fire.

Nonetheless, as Harry woke up, and found himself still warm, all he could feel was gratitude toward his magic.

Through the night, he'd not been able to shake the thought of the stream that the buck had shown him. He'd dreamed of it, and of the deer and his eyes looking up to him, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

In an attempt to scratch the mental itch that he'd incurred, Harry read through the thoughts that the Northern Magics had toward water.

Water, in almost every aspect, was a force of rejuvenation. It _healed_. It _protected_. It was incredibly rarely thought of as a force of damage, and the only offensive spell that he had come across using water was the spell that he'd used to subdue the Horntail's fire.

Harry wondered if, just as one took the essence of a fire and allowed its magic to soothe themselves, one could take in the essence of water and allow _that_ to soothe you. There was no evidence to suggest any method that it could be used, but Harry was almost sure that it could be done.

Most of the magic that the mages of the Northern Magics used regarding water was in the building of barriers, and other protections. Usually, water was used simply to mitigate _fire_ , and its devastation. While travelling by sea, mages would raise the water around them to surround the boat and to protect them from the elements. Mages would surround castles with barriers of water thick enough to stop the arrows from flying in, or for anyone to pass into the castle without considerable effort.

Indeed, water as a fluid was not a oft-used conduit for damage. _Ice_ was.

Before the vikings, under Harald Hardrada, stormed England in The Battle of Stamford Bridge, his first mage developed a spell that mimicked a volley of arrows. Though instead of wood and metal, the projectiles were _ice_. It was said that, when used, spears of ice rained down from the sky, and turned the sky white.

Unfortunately for Hardrada, the mage responsible died before they even reached England's shores, or Harry may very well have been reading Norwegian on his peak.

Harry decided that he was going to the river and attempt to mimic the passive magic of fire, with water as the element. However, as he stood up, and began to along the path, he caught the scent of something in the air. A scent that made his heart pound, and his chest feel heavy. His body tightened at the scent.

Nonetheless, Harry still walked along the path, convinced that it was a mistake of his olfactory system. But it wasn't.

The further and further along he walked the path, the stronger the scent seemed to get, until he stopped in his tracks.

And there she was.

Anxiety filled Harry at the sight of Tonks; fear and worry and stress tearing at him.

He wanted to run. To just flee from the sight of her and the memory of the pain that she caused him. Even just at the sight of her, his chest hurt and his face burned, his breath coming out weak and shaky.

Tonks' eyes looked up, and Harry was trapped before her. All he could think of was that night, and what she said, and how truly _pathetic_ he felt as she did.

"Dumbledore said I'd be able to find you here," Tonks said, her voice quiet but still carrying over the distance to him. "The old codger's a prick but at least he told me that."

Harry swallowed the deepest breath he could muster.

"What are you doing here, Tonks?" He asked, his voice weak and horrible, even to his own ears.

"I was _worried_ about you, Harry," Tonks said, and Harry almost believed her. Her eyes were so, _so_ soft. "If someone you care about runs off to the woods, you tend to worry."

And the way she said _someone you care about_ ripped Harry to shreds all over again.

"Well, I'm fine." Harry breathed out, his voice straining.

Tonks took a step forward. "Look Harry, I'm sorry," she said, taking another step toward him. "I didn't mean to hurt you. If I could go back in time, I'd make sure it never happened."

"But what did you expect to happen?" Harry said, his voice louder, his eyes wide. "When you did what you did for me, what did you expect to happen?"

Tonks looked down to the ground. "I thought you'd be my friend, Harry," she said, not even looking at him. There the word was again. _Friend_. "You have to know that I didn't want you to get hurt. You're my best friend, you mean so much to me."

"But how could you have thought that?" Harry asked, his voice thick with emotion. "When you showed me your life and _cared_ so much and you were so, _so_ beautiful, how _couldn't_ I fall in love with you?"

Silence rang through the air.

"I just didn't think you'd feel that way." Tonks said, her eyes not once meeting his.

"But you _had_ to know," Harry insisted, his voice rising and erratic. "I wasn't subtle about it. I wasn't very good at hiding at, either. Everyone else saw it, but why didn't you?"

Tonks pulled in a wracked breath. "I guess I was just hoping you didn't feel that way," she said. "You're just not like anyone else I know. Being with you is so fun, and easy, and you're so wonderful, I just hoped that'd never change, because I really hoped I'd never lose you in my life."

"But you've got to have more than hope, Tonks," Harry said. His eyes stung. "You _hurt_ me more than anyone else ever has, and you did it because you _hoped_ I didn't feel the way I did. How selfish could you be?"

Tonks looked to the sky, tears falling from her eyes. "I know, and I'm _sorry_ ," she said, her voice verging on a wail. Harry fought the urge to comfort her. "I know I should've thought about it more, but I didn't because I'm stupid and I didn't think. I'm so stupid sometimes."

"Well, you ought to think about that before the next person comes along and you hurt them." Harry said, his voice scratchy, his jaw clenching.

"Do you _really_ think there's a next person?" Tonks asked. "Harry, you are so special to me. Nobody knows the things you know about me, and about my life. There's never going to be anyone else like you for me. You mean so much, and what I did hurts me just as much as it hurts you."

"Well, you have a strange way of showing how much you care." Harry said, folding his arms across his chest.

Tonks' body began to shake softly as she cried. "What do I have to _say_ to make you believe me?" Tonks pleaded.

"It's not about what you say, Tonks, it's about what you do," Harry said, his anger making him strong. "I know you didn't mean to hurt me, but if you could stop and think for just one second about what you might have done to me, I might be able to believe that you care."

"So what, because of this one thing, all of a sudden I don't care about you?" Tonks asked, her voice rising. "Harry, I did things for you that I've never done for anyone. I've worked overtime to help you, I've taken you to Wandworthy, I've brought you to my home. I've watched _Die Hard_ with you. And all of that's wiped away because of this?"

"No it's not," Harry said, shaking his head. His chest hurt. "It just makes everything hurt more. Because the days we spent together were the happiest in my life, and they're all ruined because you never cared for me the way I cared for you."

Tonks swallowed. "Look Harry, this could never have worked out," she said, a hand going through her hair. "To begin with, it's illegal; I know that doesn't change how you feel, but it _is_. I would lose my job for it. And those moments aren't ruined because I couldn't love you the way you love me. They can still be happy times, even though you're hurt now."

"It doesn't feel that way."

"I hope that one day it does," Tonks said, meeting his eyes. "And I hope one day soon we can be friends. I don't want to lose my best friend over this."

Harry _knew_ they'd never, ever be _friends_.

Silence fell, as the pair of them breathed erratically, their emotions climbing beyond their control.

"So, is this it?" Tonks asked. "For the time being."

Harry nodded. "This is it."

Tonks stopped herself. "What about Occulemency, and my mum?" she asked.

"Just tell her that Dumbledore's helping me," Harry said. "It's not a lie. He did give me a book."

"And what about the rest of the Snape stuff?" Tonks asked desperately.

"Just drop it," Harry responded. "We were never going to get him fired, anyway. It was just a fantasy of mine."

Tonks nodded, but an odd light formed in her eye, green swirling within it momentarily, before disappearing.

"So, this is goodbye then?" Tonks asked, sadly. Harry nodded.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter - it was very difficult to write, mostly because I care a lot about the characterisation of Harry, and I wanted this chapter to be accurate to him. I hope I did him justice.**

 **Let me know what you thought.**

 **Until next time!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Hello again!**

 **Here's the next chapter - I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Let me know what you think. Reviews are incredibly helpful, both to improve as a writer and they're a wonderful motivation for me to write. I read every one, and the kind words you've offered always make me proud of what it is I'm writing.**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter.**

 **Thank you!**

* * *

Fire came easily after Tonks left.

Almost without conscious thought, Harry ran to the peak, his wand held aloft and fire pouring out, without words or incantations. Fire burned in the air, scorched the earth and blistered his skin.

But, as sweat poured from him, and as he allowed the elements to speak the truths his mouth couldn't, a moment of realisation came over him as absolutely as the fire burned through the world.

Nothing good would ever come from what he was doing.

Standing atop a mountain and billowing out fire felt good, the fire allowing his emotions to ebb and flow, to _demonstrate_ , beyond anything, what it was he felt. To give in to the fire gave lightness to Harry's world - a world that felt _heavy_ , and painful.

But it drained the symptoms - it didn't cure the condition.

He stopped his magic then, the fire snuffing out as quickly as it came; balance returning to the world around him. His chest heaved, his heart pounded. He _wanted_ to scream and to rave and to shout, but he knew it would do no good. That contradiction was agonising, but it was better than allowing the flames of his spirit to rip open the wounds before they even had a chance to stop bleeding.

The green fire that he'd formed days ago began flickering before him. It did not snuff out completely, but the brightness it exuded dimmed ever-so-slightly, the heat offered by the flames not reducing. The heat was too much for Harry though, and he walked away from the fire, his skin feeling close and uncomfortable.

The stream called to him then, and he followed its call. There was a clarity to the crisp, cold water that enticed him - a peace that he needed. And, for as peculiar as the deer was, there was a _wisdom_ to Eikthyrnir that he wished to experience once more.

Despite the sun holding its place in the sky, the stream was no easier to find. There was no sound of water flowing, no valley cut from the hill; there was no evidence of its existence at all. For a moment, Harry was convinced that he'd simply imagined its existence, his idle mind filling in the blank spaces to entertain him.

He came across the oak tree that he'd once found Eikthyrnir occupying, but there was still no sign of him. No tracks or cries. The tree had not been grazed upon, nor had any of the other trees that surrounded him. Then, _then_ he became convinced he'd been imagining things - that his entire retreat had been nothing but a flight of fancy, a dream born of pain.

Until he heard a noise in the distance - one, two, three wolves howling, their shouts like poison to the wind. A shiver ran through him.

Without hesitation, Harry followed the noise through the trees, his thumb gently rubbing over one of the elderberries carved on his wand. A second chorus of howls met his ears, and Harry steps grew in urgency, rushing to meet the cause of the sound, the beginnings of fear ebbing inside his stomach.

Then, he heard a third sound - a cry of abject _terror_ \- and he took off running.

He ran as fast as could toward the cry. As he ran, the sound of water, cascading over rocks, began to meet his ears. The noise only served to feed the anxious weight in his stomach. Louder and louder the sounds became, like the swelling of tidal waves before a tsunami destroyed a coastline.

And when the sights before his eyes caught up to the sounds meeting his ears, Harry's heart pounded through his chest.

For he had found the stream, but so too had a pack of three wolves, their fur black and mottled, their teeth bared, and their attention all focused upon one thing.

Eikthyrnir.

The three wolves had surrounded the deer, their bodies far outweighing his, their muscles poised to pounce and rip through the adolescent deer.

Time seemed to slow as the wolves circled around him, malicious intent filling their yellow eyes. Eikthyrnir stood motionless between them, his footing looked sure, but his clear, blue eyes darted through the wood seeking help. Seeking for Harry.

Shame filled him then. If _only_ he had allowed the deer to follow him to his camp, this wouldn't have happened.

The wolves hadn't noticed him yet, and Harry was frozen still in an effort to keep it that way. Any sudden movement, any sudden shift, and Eikthyrnir would be the one that suffered. If Harry could just get close enough to use a spell that'd take all of the wolves out at once, everything would be fine. Eikthyrnir was only twenty yards or so away, and the running of the stream covered the sound of Harry's motion, the trees covering any sight of him. As long as he didn't bring attention to himself, Eikthyrnir would be safe.

Slowly, Harry crept toward the wolves. Their snarling became visceral as they _tasted_ Eikthyrnir's fear in the air. They were playing with their food. Twenty yards became fifteen, and fifteen became ten.

With every step the tension bled from his gut. With each step, Eikthyrnir became safer and safer. But, with each step, Harry became more and more visible. And when Harry was no more than seven yards away from saving Eikthyrnir, it all went wrong.

For, as Harry approached, Eikthyrnir's wild eyes caught sight of Harry, and his whole body shifted. He stood taller, as though he was not trapped by three huge predators, and the fear that milled in the air disappeared. The wolves followed his eye-line, and found Harry.

Then, they attacked.

At once, two wolves sprang toward Harry, their legs bounding over to him, murder in their eyes. A deep-seated, evolutionary fear hit Harry then, as two wild animals came at him with teeth-bared and every intention of killing him.

But what most scared him was not the two wolves running toward him, but the one wolf that threw itself toward Eikthyrnir. It was the largest, its body outweighing the deer's by nearly double, and it moved with a lethal grace that only spelled pain for the buck. The wolf's teeth bit into the deer's chest, blood pouring into its mouth, and Eikthyrnir let out a cry of agony that tore through Harry.

Ignoring the two wolves running toward him, Harry trained his wand to the other wolf.

" _Hjorr Hyrr!_ " Harry shouted at the wolf, and a flaming sword carved into its body, cutting from shoulder to shoulder. The wolf slumped to the floor immediately, its teeth losing their grip upon Eikthrynir, blood pouring from both the deer and the wolf and onto the damp ground.

The other wolves were not deterred for they still ran at Harry, the same vicious intent powering each and every step. But Harry's focus was on them now, and so was his wand.

" _Logi!_ " Harry shouted, and a gout of flame was upon the two wolves, burning them in a heartbeat, their bodies slumping lifelessly onto the ground.

Harry looked around, carefully checking that there was nothing else out there that would hurt Eikthrynir. There was nothing but the wind in the trees, and the flowing of the stream. And the flowing of Eikthrynir's blood into the grass.

Harry was at his side as quickly as he could be, his mind racing as he thought desperately of what he could do. He didn't know any healing spells, and Hogwarts was too far away - by the time he got there, Eikthrynir would be beyond help.

Harry's heart pounded as he cradled the buck's head in his arms, looking into its pure, blue eyes. There was understanding there, and fear, and a wondrous _nature_ to them, and Harry begged all of the Gods in the clouds for some way to help him - so that such an incredible being did not have to leave the world then.

And then, a thought burst into Harry's mind. A thought born of the Northern Magics.

The stream, so pure and so mythically clear, under Harry and the Northern Magics, could save Eikthrynir. If Harry was able, the magic of the water could heal the wounds, and Eikthrynir would not have to suffer.

Harry placed his hand over the gouged wound upon the buck, and Eikthrynir did not even react, so understanding was this incredible deer. Harry laid his other hand within the stream, feeling the cold water against his skin, and he closed his eyes, seeking the healing essence of the water.

Harry took a deep breath, and began.

With every fibre of his being, he searched within the stream, _begging_ the world to find its essence, and to heal his friend. The water seemed to reach out to him in turn, latching onto Harry's magic, the two bodies of nature connecting. Harry drew in that magic, that _essence_ , and allowed his magic to absorb the healing that the water held so clearly, and he needed so desperately.

Softly, Harry allowed his magic to pour into Eikthrynir, gently allowing the water's power to heal him. Eikthrynir's eyes were intent upon Harry's, their connection never wavering as Harry's entire body was absorbed with healing him. Eikthrynir's spirit offered no resistance to Harry's magic, welcoming Harry like…a _friend_. Another well of shame arose within shame Harry, for this beautiful being had offered nothing but kindness, and Harry had hurt him.

Harry knew that he would save Eikthrynir, or he would never be able to live with himself.

Beneath his hand, the blood had slowly stopped flowing. Where there was once a river, there was a leaking tap, and then nothing. Yet Harry knew that if the wound itself would not heal, then his friend would not live to see another day, and so he continued on.

Harry closed his eyes, and opened himself _fully_ to the water's essence, and was greeted with peace and healing and rejuvenation. Harry absorbed _all_ of that the stream could offer, and gave it to Eikthrynir.

He could feel the skin under his hand begin to stitch together, carefully knitting itself healthy under the influence of the stream. For each flow of water that ran through Harry's fingers, a rush of calm flowed through Eikthrynir's spirit, and the wound that had ensured certain death for the buck was only a flesh wound, and then nothing at all.

And as his health returned, Eikthrynir's spirit flared to life with a power unlike anything that Harry had ever experienced.

For Harry had poured so much of the stream's power into the deer, that Eikthrynir's _spirit_ had been infused with it. The flowing water and Eikthrynir were now one in the same, and so Eikthrynir's nature had been altered. Where it was once just an incredible deer, it was now _more_.

Harry opened his eyes, and Eikthrynir had been transformed. His coat, once chestnut, was now a shade of white clearer than the snow in the trees. Where once he was small and thin, now he was a powerful specimen, filled with _power_ and magic - his coat seemed to shine with his power. His antlers were stronger than the oak he'd first found him in; they held a blue glow, exuding a force beyond words.

Yet his eyes remained the same; they were just as magnificent as ever. But the look behind them changed. A clear connection formed in one-another's eyes, a deep and profound understanding shining through Eikthrynir _and_ Harry.

Harry had not only given Eikthrynir the stream, but also a part of _himself_. And Eikthrynir had given Harry a part of _himself_ in turn. Harry held the deer close, hugging him in relief.

Dimly, Harry realised that his other hand was no longer within water. Harry's eyes shifted, and he saw why.

Where once a majestic stream had flown, there was now nothing. The ground was not damp. The rocks were not wet. Nothing. From a wondrous fable of nature, to empty space, in a matter of minutes.

But it was not simply _gone_. No, not at all.

Within Eikthrynir's being, there was now that beautiful stream and its clear waters. Eikthrynir held that stream; he held its power, its tranquility, its beauty.

And there was no other being more deserving of it than that incredible deer.

* * *

Staying at the peak no longer felt right with Eikthrynir by his side.

The very air of that place was _raw_. There was a frayed energy to it that was uncomfortable, and Eikthrynir didn't deserve to be exposed to it. The place was a shrine to emotions that he wished to place behind him, and so he did.

Eikthrynir simply felt right to be by side, like his own wonderfully direct connection to his magic. Where once he had to _search_ for the magic that surrounded him; with this magnificent buck, the magic was at his fingertips.

The transformation that he had gone through had altered the deer in many ways. He towered over Harry now, and Harry himself was fairly confident that, if Eikthrynir was put in the Black Lake, he'd have the body of water at his beck and call in an instant. But _he_ hadn't changed. The rare peace in his eyes had not fled him, and Harry couldn't help but be calmed by his presence; he was like pressurised water, erasing the grime of Harry's thoughts.

He visited the peak one final time, simply to retrieve the notes he'd left there. Even though it was only hours that separated his final visit and the prior one, the place seemed to belong to different period of time entirely. The fire still burned, but only just, and with one glance from Harry, Eikthrynir extinguished its light with the water of his antlers.

It was only then that Harry appreciated the view from the peak. Hogwarts Castle stood in the distance, the Forbidden Forest in the foreground, Hogsmeade to the east, and the enormity of the wilds of Scotland surrounding the grounds on all sides. The air was crisp, snow covered the leaves of the trees, but from the peak, the world looked truly alive.

But Harry knew that his place was within the castle and its ghosts.

Oddly, despite the chill that the winter air held, he was not the only one purveying the lands. As Harry set upon walking back, Eikthrynir striding with elegant grace beside him, the Black Lake came into view, and with it came the view of many of the Durmstrang students sitting around the dock of the lake, unaffected by the temperature. Some even looked to be swimming within its murky depths, their cloaks abandoned onto the frozen grass.

But as soon as Harry was upon the grounds, their interest in lakeside frolicking came to an abrupt end.

They couldn't help but stare in unabashed _awe_ as Eikthrynir and Harry walked through the lawns, their jaws almost unhinging to gape at the sight of them. For once, Harry did not feel anxious as they gazed in his direction, because it was undoubtable who their fascination was directed toward, and he could not blame them for their interest in the slightest. Eikthrynir stood tall despite the attention, and Harry smiled at him, his hand reaching up to stroke at his fur.

Walking within Hogwarts halls with Eikthrynir was all the more spectacular too, though not for the attention he garnered. Each stone seemed to come alive with the buck beside him, a thousand years of magic and history willing themselves to Harry. From the moment Harry had entered the castle, there was never any doubt as to whether the castle had _presence_ , but then, then it was clear that Hogwarts was much more than that.

The stones of the castle's foundations told Harry where to go, and he bowed to their better judgement. Eikthrynir was linked in-step with him, their footfalls marching to the rhythm of the castle's magic.

It was only when they arrived at the Headmaster's office that he realised just where he'd gotten to. The door swung open without prompting, neither he nor Dumbledore expecting the sudden introduction to one another's visage as it did.

"Harry, I must say I didn't expect you to be here," Dumbledore said, his posture relaxing as he looked up from the paper before him. "I had thought you'd still be enjoying your refuge - Harry, why is there a deer in my office?"

"He's Eikthrynir. I met him in the woods. He's…well, I don't really know what he is, but he's special." Harry explained.

"Well, that is obvious, you can almost _see_ the magic coming off of him," Dumbledore said. Fawkes let out a trill beside him, his form youthful, though his eyes still immortal and wise. "Is he to be your familiar?"

Harry smiled. "I think I'm _his_ familiar," he said, taking a seat across from the Headmaster. "The Northern Magics are far more than just expansive explosions of power, Headmaster. They are capable of so much more. And in this circumstance, they are capable of healing."

Dumbledore smiled a boyish smile. "It has long been postulated that water was a product of healing, but many had dismissed it as shamanism."

"Perhaps that's all the Northern Magics are," Harry mused, a hand running through his hair. "Simply shamanism that I believe in."

"That's all _magic_ is, Harry. People may make mountains out of molehills with rigour and technique, but underpinning everything is belief. People _believe_ in rigour and in technique, and perhaps that is why they matter. All that I truly know is that I have never performed even a simple act of magic without first believing that I could," Dumbledore said, steepling his hands. "In truth Harry, I am glad that you're here. I had wanted to discuss something."

"As did I, I suspect." Harry offered, settling into his chair.

"First, I'd like to say that I am sorry. After our last conversation, I must confess I was angry. I was angry that you defied me and you defied what I had held to be true of Neville. I was angry that someone I care for disregarded my views in favour of their own. But more truthfully, I was angry at myself for being so blind to my own failings for so many years," Dumbledore said, his eyes weary. "With Neville, I was performing a deed that I hated performing. In the beginning, I detested that which I put him through; with the Philosopher's Stone. But somewhere in the years, I allowed my own arrogance to take over, that anything I did was right and true, and I allowed myself to galvanise that shame. I became blind to that shame, and I became blind to the truly terrible things I was doing."

"Go on, Headmaster." Harry said, his hand absently running through the fur of Eikthrynir's coat.

"I have never wanted the position that I possess. I am not the Chief Warlock, or the Grand Sorcerer, or the Supreme Mugwump. I am a _teacher._ I am a scholar of Transfiguration, and I am a man that wishes to educate. Before Voldemort, I had never coveted the power of politics, of manipulation. But just as those that cannot say his name became blind to fear, so did I. My blindness allowed me to believe that _anything_ that could allow our victory was acceptable. It blinded me to my own self, and so I began coveting power for fear that evil would take it otherwise.

"But when you said the things that you said to me, for the first time in years I could see what it was I'd been doing. I was confronted with the darkness I had allowed to fester within me. And I hated myself for what I could see."

Harry was stunned into silence.

"So, I have resigned from my extraneous posts. I am no longer a member of the IWC, or the Wizengamot, and they will elect my replacement in the coming weeks," Dumbledore said, and Harry could hardly breathe for the shock. "I've allowed too many things to be placed upon my shoulders. Too many things to be placed upon this desk, that had come to block my view of what was on the other side of the desk; the students I _should_ be caring for. It is time for me to return to the duties that I was born to do."

"That's incredible, Professor."

"It is, but it shouldn't be," Dumbledore said, rubbing at his eyes. "Now Harry, there is something else that I wished to discuss with you."

"Of course, Professor," Harry said, though he was still reeling over what he had heard. "What is it?"

"While I acted as I did, despite my methods, I was acting to secure the safety in the future of our society," Dumbledore began. "Harry, I am going to tell you of something that only three living souls know. You are to be the fourth."

Harry nodded, swallowing down a large clot of air.

"Harry, there is a prophecy," Dumbledore said. "In that prophecy, it states under no uncertain terms that there is to be a child born at the end of July that will bring about the end of Voldemort. He is to be the _only_ person capable of defeating Voldemort; him and only him. Voldemort will mark this child, and he will be his equal."

"And you believe this prophecy?" Harry asked, curiously.

"I do, only because Voldemort does," Dumbledore explained. "Now, as we both know, Neville is born at the end of July, and Voldemort attacked him. In my eyes, this can only mean one thing; the boy is his equal. He is the one that the prophecy called upon."

"So, that was the reason you did what you did?" Harry asked. "Because of this prophecy?"

"Yes, Harry, that is why," Dumbledore confirmed, his head nodding slightly. "In my eyes, that was his marking of Neville. But, with your entry into the tournament, I am no longer sure. _You_ were born at the end of July, and by the Goblet of Fire, you were marked as his equal. You are both candidates, but it cannot be known which is the one that is to be Voldemort's bane."

Harry swallowed.

"So, it is likely that I am truly Voldemort's enemy?" Harry asked, evenly. "That it was not just a fluke of magic?"

"It is not certain, but yes, it is likely," Dumbledore said. Harry pupils dilated.

"But _how_ is that possible?" Harry asked, worried. "I thought that Neville had already defeated him?"

"As did I, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Tell me, how much do you know of the Cruciatus Curse?"

Harry shook his head. "Almost nothing, why?"

"For years, I took the effects of the curse for granted," Dumbledore explained. "But upon further review, I studied the curse. Do you know _why_ it causes the pain that it does?"

Harry shook his head.

"It is not physical, nor is it neurological. It is a magic upon the soul," Dumbledore said, his eyes tired. "When the caster inflicts the curse upon a person, their soul is _slowly_ ripped from its body, and the act causes agony beyond comprehension. That is why extended exposure causes insanity. The soul is lost from the body."

Harry nodded. He forced himself to be an academic; to think emotionally on such a subject would be impossible. "So it's similar to a dementor?"

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Yes, though much, much slower," he said. "When Voldemort cast that curse upon Neville, something unfathomable happened. Perhaps because of Voldemort's deeds catching up to him. Perhaps because of a magic beyond mortal comprehension. Or, perhaps because of such a vile curse being cast on one so young, the magic rebounded, and the curse stole away the soul from Voldemort's body."

"So he defeated himself?" Harry asked, and Dumbledore nodded. "But I don't understand. Why didn't he just use the killing curse?"

"Voldemort ruled by fear. The killing curse, while foolproof, is clinical. Painless and immediate. He wished to send a message that he was one to _obey_ , and in order to do that he needed to demonstrate the consequences he would enact," Dumbledore explained, disgust in his voice. "There is nothing worse than what he planned. What parent would go against him after that?"

Harry closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

"But how did he survive?" Harry asked. "If what you're saying is true, then his soul will have been ripped from his body. Surely he can't have survived that?"

"I don't know," Dumbledore said. "I know that in his rise to power, Voldemort did things to himself that are unutterable. Terrible manglings of nature that defiled the very thing that gives the world life. It is my belief that, through such an act, he has given himself the power to separate one's self from one's body. To become ethereal in order to escape death. To discover what methods he has used is my duty now, and to prevent him from returning to his body. Otherwise we may very well lose what he hold dear."

Harry looked altogether weary, the brightness he had entered the office with long gone.

"Does Neville know?"

"He will know when he returns from his family," Dumbledore said. "It is not right to disrupt the time he can spend with his loved ones. Bad news can wait, for good times cannot."

"You need to tell him," Harry said. "He deserves to know."

Dumbledore nodded.

Both Harry and Albus sat deep within their chairs, the weight of the conversation laying heavy on both of them. Beside them, Fawkes and Eikthrynir were looking at one another, the phoenix at his perch and the deer on the ground. And then, in an instant, Fawkes flew above Eikthrynir's head, and he chased him around the office, trying to hit him with his antlers, a look of joy in his eyes.

"Harry, I know that you cannot forgive what I've done," Dumbledore said, as he watched his companion fly. "But can you understand my reasoning?"

"I can, Professor," Harry said, watching his new-found friend. "And, I believe in time I can forgive too. You have always been a good man to me and I'm going to value you as the good man you are, rather than the flawed man you've been. You've made a few poor choices, but that doesn't change the good for our world that you've done, or the good that fuels the actions that you take."

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes shining. "I hope that I never give you another reason to doubt me.

"If I could offer just one piece of advice, Harry?"

"Of course, Professor."

"You might want to take a bath soon. A long one," Dumbledore said. "A good meal would do you good, too. People might begin hanging coats over you otherwise."

* * *

After wiping away the grime of living in the wild, Harry returned to his room for the first time in a week. He had not realised, but in his time in the wild, he'd missed the turning of the year. 1994 had ended, and he hoped to leave much of what it possessed behind.

The moment he walked into the room, he brandished his wand, the fireplace flaring to life as he did. He pushed his bed and his nightstand through the air and into the other side of the room. He took away the decorations that Dumbledore had given to the room, and he conjured a bookshelf for the books that sat loosely on the floor. He conjured a bed for Eikthrynir, though he doubted he'd need it very often - the buck had already gotten restless, and gone for a roam about the grounds.

The golden egg from the first task still sat lamely on the floor. Harry had not opened it beyond his first try at deciphering the clue. There just wasn't a great deal to go on. The screaming wasn't tonal, or rhythmic. It seemed, when heard, to be a constant wave of noise.

He had wondered if it had an effect when subject to external magic. He'd spent the better part of a day sending unlocking spells, deciphering charms and even attempting transfiguration on it, to no avail. There was no precedent of a golden egg, and short of a goose hatching from it, he had no idea of what the clue could possibly mean.

Nonetheless, he knew that he'd have to crack it soon. There was only two months to go until the next task, and he knew that he had no desire to go through another task without any idea of what he was facing.

However, he was prevented from any further thought on the subject by a knock on his door, followed by the sight of Fleur wearing a look of surprise as she saw him standing there. Harry's jaw clenched.

"'Arry, you're back!" She said, rushing into the room. "I had began to worry about you."

"I'm sure you did." Harry muttered back.

"I don't understand," Fleur said, her voice getting high, her eyes barreling on Harry's. "What do you mean?"

"You know what you did," Harry said, quietly. "You knew how Tonks felt about me."

"Did she say yes? Did she return your affections?" Fleur replied, mildly hopeful.

"No Fleur, she didn't. She didn't love me, and you knew that she wouldn't," Harry accused. Fleur eyes softened at his ire. "You _intentionally_ pushed me toward her, knowing full well that she didn't feel that way because you wanted to hurt me. Because you wanted me to be a lesser competition. I wouldn't be surprised if you did the same with Viktor and Hermione, and Cedric and his girlfriend. You wanted us all to be distracted so that you'd win the tournament."

Fleur was taken aback. "I would _never_ do such a thing!" she said. "I would not use _love_ as some product of manipulation. Love is a sacred and beautiful thing - it is not something you barter and _use_ ," Fleur took a deep breathe to calm herself. "'Arry, I truly believed that she cared for you, and I'm sorry that she did not. Sometimes even the best people do not get what they deserve, and sometimes people are blind to the best things in their life."

Harry, however, was still agitated. "It is hard to believe you, when before the first task you hated me so easily. It's not a massive leap to think you'd do such a thing."

"But it is still a leap, 'Arry," Fleur countered, her voice and eyes soft. "I would never do it. Love is the most fantastic thing in the world, and I hoped that you would be able to receive it. I was wrong, and I am sorry for being wrong, but my blindness was not a manipulation. I was hoping to make you happy."

"It still doesn't change how you treated me and how similar that, and this, feels." Harry said, losing some of his steam, his eyes at the floor.

Fleur took a step toward him, so that they were then in touching distance. "'Arry, before the first task, all that you were to me was the enemy," she began. "But then you mentioned your parents and after seeing your task, and the very fact that you did not wish to be in the tournament to begin with, I realised just how wrong that I was. How much of a fool I was. How childish my worries seemed in the face of yours. I wanted to make things right, and so I pushed you toward the one thing that brought you happiness. I tried to make you happy."

Harry sat upon his bed then. "Well, she didn't love me back."

Fleur joined him, sitting on the edge of his bed. "It may hurt now, but there will be other women. Other women that make the love you feel for her look like a match when compared to the sun."

Harry smiled, though it looked to hurt. "I highly doubt that."

"There was once another person in my life too," Fleur said, her eyes downcast. "His name was Jean-Michel. I was fifteen, he was a year younger, and he went to one of the smaller, more restrictive schools in Versailles. Anyway, he and I were together for almost a year, and I loved him, though we had not said such words to one-another. It was approaching our one-year anniversary, and so on one of the weekends we would usually visit our homes, I instead took the train to Versailles to surprise him. But when I got there, I found his arms around another girl."

Harry swallowed. "What happened?"

Fleur's eyes grew sad, though she did not cry. "Apparently, he was only intending to be my boyfriend because, at sixteen, a Veela first begins to develop their attraction, and so he'd easily be able to sleep with a Veela," Fleur said. " _Batard_."

"So he dated you for a year just so, after that year, he'd be with a Veela?" Harry clarified. Fleur nodded. "What did you do?"

"I left," Fleur said. "I got back on the train with a broken heart, and cried my way back to Beauxbatons. And I realised that I would never play with love. No-one deserves that pain."

Harry nodded, taking a deep breathe.

"I just get angry when I think about it." Harry said.

Fleur nodded, looking into his eyes. "Do you feel like you're angry at yourself for never seeing what was really happening?"

Harry nodded emphatically. "Yes!" he agreed. "I'm just so angry that I was stupid enough to think she'd feel the way I hoped she'd feel."

Fleur's eyes grew sympathetic. "It wasn't stupid, 'Arry," she said. "It was not impossible for someone like her to have cared for you. It simply didn't happen for you and her then."

"It doesn't feel like it now." Harry replied, smiling ruefully.

"But it will," Fleur said, her blue eyes earnest. She wrapped her arm around his back, and he hesitantly leaned into her. "Millions of girls would be happy to have you."

"I never wanted millions, Fleur," Harry said. "I wanted one. Her. And she's gone."

"Then she is not worth the place she has in your heart," Fleur said. "There are brighter things in your future, 'Arry. Brighter things than her. More deserving of your love."

"I hope so."

"I _know_ so," Fleur asserted, squeezing his shoulder. Harry smiled in spite of himself. Her eyes fixed upon the egg in the middle of the room. "Speaking of brighter things, have you solved your clue?"

"Not yet, no." Harry said.

"Nor have I," Fleur said. "It does not seem possible, and listening to it jars my ears."

"At least we have nearly two months to solve it." Harry offered.

"Madam Maxine wishes for me to solve it by the end of next week, so that we may strategise," Fleur explained, monotone, before brightening. "I have also asked her to not score you as she did, in the future."

"Thanks, Fleur." Harry said.

"I have wondered what the task is going to be, though," Fleur said. A spark of thought formed in her eyes. "When the tournament was first introduced to our school, Madam Maxine called it the tournament of the elements. The last trial was fire and air; I wonder if the next is earth and water?"

"Perhaps it is," Harry said, and as he did, Eikthyrnir returned, gracefully loping over to Harry's side. Fleur was stunned into silence. "This is Eikthyrnir. He's my friend."

"He's _magnifique_ ," Fleur said, in _awe_. "I did not know you had a familiar."

"I didn't, but now I do," Harry explained. "I met him recently."

Fleur smiled. "Well, when one door closes, another opens." she said, more to herself than to him.

Harry smiled. "Perhaps you were right about the egg," he said, turning to Eikthyrnir. "Would you mind pouring water over the egg?"

Eikthyrnir nodded, and Harry conjured a small pool, and he placed the egg within it. Harry opened the clue, and was greeted by the screeching. Until Eikthyrnir began submerging it in his water.

And all at once, the screams turned into song.

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter - let me know what you think.**

 **Until next time!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey everyone!**

 **Here's the next chapter. I really enjoyed writing it, and I think I took a chance with this one - I hope you enjoy it.**

 **Let me know what you think of it. I read every review, and I truly appreciate everything you say. If you want a question answered, feel free to send me a PM.**

 **Here we go!**

* * *

Knowledge, while essential, was not everything.

Harry knew, for example, that on the 24th February he was to traverse the Black Lake and retrieve something that he valued highly, and that he would have to do that within an hour. He knew that he would have to survive under water for an hour, while most likely still having to be able to defend himself against whatever was there to prevent him doing so.

However, where knowledge failed was in how to solve these problems. Eikthyrnir would be no use as he would be considered outside interference, and Harry suspected that he may very well be the 'something' that he would sorely miss.

Moreover, Harry was worried that it would _not_ be Eikthyrnir. He was worried that it would be Tonks.

He didn't think he could look at her after what he'd said, and how he'd acted while he'd been angry. He felt so juvenile as he thought upon it. He'd acted so immaturely, and he'd _blamed_ her for his own feelings. All she had wanted was to make sure that he knew that she cared, and he'd thrown that care in her face.

He realised it was time to take some responsibility for his own emotions. He was not a pinball, bouncing against the sides of life, a victim to everything that happened to him. He was not powerless, but he'd been acting like it. He was _better_ than that, and he knew it now. She didn't owe him love. He wasn't owed anything, and he realised that he ought to have taken care over his own feelings. They were no-one else's responsibility but his.

She _should_ have been more empathetic to his feelings. But he _should_ have been more careful with himself. He used to be, but he'd forgotten that and Tonks was a lesson in that too.

He understood now. If someone was ever going to love him, he needed to be better than he was then. More _mature_. He needed to accept that the problem was not that Tonks did not love him because of his _age_ , but because of the symptoms that came with it. Moping would not make his life any better - making his own life better would.

And so, as realisation dawned, the once burning rage had cooled; the coals were still smoldering, but they did not scold his skin as it neared them.

He would be stronger, he promised himself. He would be better. And hopefully then he would be happy.

Yet still, such an epiphany did not help with the task. The method that may have made completing such a task feasible - Fish-Human Transfiguration - would severely hinder his ability to cast spells, and as he would have had to alter his own head to breathe underwater, he worried that he'd leave most of his cognitive function behind.

The Northern Magics were not much use in that regard either, unfortunately. For as wondrous as they had been, they had their limits. Short of lifting every drop of water from the lake and into the air, he doubted they could be much use. And he doubted he had the power to even _try_ to do that.

The Bubble-Head charm was another option he'd found, though that was not without its problems. It was fairly flimsy, with regards to magic, and was ripped apart by almost any magical force, which included attacks from magical creatures. More importantly though, it didn't feel _right_ to Harry. As the charm fell over him, the air that was held within it felt suffocating and when he'd submerged his head in water with the charm on, he'd very quickly realised that he needed another method of surviving.

In his room, he'd collected almost every book that was even remotely connected to such a subject: aquamarine environments, water exploration, extreme environment survival - anything that he thought could help, yet there was nothing that felt sufficiently useful. He'd read one of Dumbledore's biographies that detailed his diplomacy with the Merfolk, and even that didn't help as Dumbledore had such a mastery over Transfiguration that he used a water-to-air transmutation acting over his entire body so nuanced that he could still be understood as he spoke in Mermish.

A knock on the door saved him from his own thoughts.

Neville stood within the door frame, though he did not appear himself. His posture was…off, and he held distant look in his eyes. There was a worry to him that was so entirely unlike Neville that for a moment Harry thought he'd been replaced by an entirely different person.

"Harry, can I have a word?" Neville asked quietly, his words barely leaving his mouth, so sheepish were they. Harry nodded, and only then did Neville walk into the room, taking a seat at the other side of the room.

Harry understood. "I take it Dumbledore told you, then?" Neville nodded.

"Yeah, he told me last night," Neville replied, scratching at the base of his neck. "About the prophecy and how it was going to be one of us that faces him in the end."

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, as he watched Neville shift in his seat.

"I guess I always knew I'd be involved with him until one of us died," Neville explained. "With everything that happened when I was younger, it makes sense. Just to be told it's a _certainty_ is difficult."

"Did he tell you about the Cruciatus curse?" Harry questioned further. "About how it works?"

Neville nodded. "Yeah he did," he confirmed, his voice shaky. "I think that was the hardest thing to hear. Knowing the pain my Mum went through when she left us, and the fact that my Dad still has to live through it all. It's really hard."

Harry attempted to offer a comforting smile, though Neville's situation did not seem to be something that could be overcome through hope and wishful thinking.

"You know, there's days I do nothing but study Herbology textbooks, looking for _anything_ that would help bring him back?" Neville said, his eyes a million miles away. "I look through every single book I can find, hoping to bring him back to me. It's all I want."

"I hope you find it." Harry said, his words feeling worthless in the face of Neville's declaration.

"I want it more than anything in the world," Neville said. "Do you have any idea what it's like, visiting your own Dad and him not even knowing who you are? Having to look into his eyes, and knowing that I'm just a blank face in his memory."

"I don't," Harry admitted, his words tasting like ash. "I could never do what you do. It's been fourteen years and it still sometimes hurts me to look at pictures of them. But if you're strong enough to go through what you go through, you're strong enough to heal him."

Silence reigned over the pair of them, neither looking at the other. Through the window, Harry caught sight of Eikthrynir loping through the grounds that surrounded the Black Lake.

"I don't know if I am," Neville admitted. "It never gets any easier, and he never gets any better. They try everything, but nothing ever changes, and I think I'm starting to lose hope. I don't want to, but sometimes I start thinking if it'd be kinder if he didn't have to live as he did."

Harry swallowed.

"He just sits there, staring at nothing and waiting for the next pain-relief potion to come," Neville said, his eyes blank. "Apparently, there's no evidence that he's in pain, but all you have to do is _look_ and you can see it. It's in his eyes. He isn't happy, and nothing's working, and I don't think anything's ever going to make it better."

Harry felt like he was drowning, so lost for words was he.

"As long as you still have faith that he can be healed, he has a chance," Harry said. "There's no-one in the world that's as good as you are at Herbology. You earned your OWL at 13, for Merlin's sake. If _you_ believe he can be saved, he can be saved."

"But that's the problem, Harry," Neville said. "I don't know if he can anymore."

A phantom weight pressed upon Harry's chest.

"Well, I believe in you." Harry said.

Harry looked over to Neville, and found he was rolling a wand between his fingers, though it was not his own. He looked up and caught Harry's eye, offering a small smile.

"I'm sorry for talking about all of that with you," Neville said, his natural air returning to him slowly, though it appeared oddly false. "I know it's a lot to have dropped on you, and you didn't need it."

"I'm glad you could get it off your chest," Harry said, ignoring how _heavy_ he felt. "I suppose, given that we're linked together by a prophecy, we ought to be able to trust each other with stuff."

"Yeah, I supposed we ought to, too," Neville agreed. "How are _you_ dealing with that?"

"I'm not, really," Harry admitted, a nervous chuckle escaping his throat. "It just doesn't seem like it's the sort of thing that would ever happen to me."

"More of my thing, isn't it?" Neville asked, a wry grin tugging at his mouth.

"A bit, yeah," Harry agreed, nodding. "Before this year, I barely existed, and now I'm a Triwizard Champion, and apparently I could be the sworn enemy of the most evil person alive - it hardly seems real."

"Well, it hasn't been all bad, has it?" Neville asked, his tone leading. "You met that girl you were at the Ball with."

Harry swallowed. "Me and her aren't, y'know, together." he got out.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Neville said quietly. "You two looked like you liked each other a lot."

"She didn't."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, too," Neville said immediately. "But there's plenty of fish in the sea."

Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think I want to go swimming with anyone else, as it were."

"It wouldn't hurt to try," Neville said. "I've known quite a fair bit of getting hurt like that. Girls I thought liked me, but it turns out only liked the fact that my name was in the Prophet four days a week. For me, the best way to get over it was to force myself to move on, no matter if it hurts or not."

"It just feels too soon," Harry said. "I'm nowhere near over her. I don't even think I've begun to get over her."

"But you know you will, don't you?" Neville asked. "No matter how who the girl might be, they're only human. There's not a person in this world that you can't get over."

Harry clenched his jaw, stopping himself from shouting down a denial. Tonks was anything _but_ human. She was beautiful. She was _magic_ , personified. She was beyond anything he'd seen in the world, and she was beyond anything he could hope to see. There just wasn't a soul like her.

"I don't know about that." Harry said instead.

"Look, I can tell at the moment you have her on a pedestal," Neville said. "And let me know if this is crossing a line, but you know about my Dad, so I think we can trust one another," Neville leaned forward in his chair. "The moment you start looking at someone else is the moment you can start to get over her. So, do you _want_ to get over her?"

 _That_ was the question.

"I suppose I do." Harry said, though it felt like tectonic plates were grinding together in his chest.

"Then I think you owe it to yourself, to let yourself move on," Neville said. "It's the only way you're gonna be happy."

"So, what do I do?" Harry asked, tentatively.

"It's simple - you just look at another girl as a girl," Neville explained. "With this girl that you liked, you had tunnel-vision. You've got to get out of the tunnel. Was this girl the first girl you ever really liked?" Harry nodded. "Then all the more so. She's the only girl that's ever been in your mind; you've got to let another in, if only for a little while."

Harry considered his words, nodding. Neville's words seemed to exist in a world so unlike Harry's that it felt like they weren't even English.

"Thanks, Neville."

"I'm just giving you the advice that Sirius once gave me." Neville admitted. Harry fought the urge to be bitter over how close his Godfather and Neville were.

"He was a big help for you?" Harry asked, forcing his voice even.

"He's been great," Neville said immediately, his eyes bright. "He knew my parents, and he's just someone that understands, you know?"

Harry wished he did.

"How is it that you got so close?" Harry asked.

"It started out as us just wanting to keep the other person alive," Neville said. "We both saved each other. It started as him giving me that cloak which kept me safe from the Dementors last year, then I saved him from the Kiss. After that, I think we just became each other's confidante. I was the only person that he could really talk to about him being on the run, and he was the only person that could understand what it was like to be a victim of a witch-hunt. _Well_ , now you do, too."

A pang of jealousy hit Harry.

"You know, I was going to Floo him soon," Neville said. "You should join me. He'd be able to help you."

Harry nodded. "Sure," he said, reluctantly. "It sounds like a good idea."

* * *

In searching for a way of surviving the second task, Harry had learned quite a few things.

First, that water was far more resistive to any alteration than he had originally thought. In his mind's eye, he had always thought've water as an easy conduit, passive and inert. He had thought, in its calm, that it was easily swayed, but his education had taught him otherwise. Water flowed, it was true, but water flowed to its own tide and no-one else's. Water held healing, but it held danger with every breath.

Second, that he knew very little of what inhabited the water of the Black Lake. Outside of the Giant Squid and the school of Grindylow, he did not truly know of the culture that existed within the murky depths.

An entire colony of Merpeople lived underneath the water, their entire lives lived adjacent to the castle. How odd was it that thousands of living, sentient beings could live just a short distance away, and Harry had never once encountered them?

All that life, and yet not Harry had not spent a single moment thinking of them. As the task was within the lake and the clue was a message using their language, Harry was confident that they would feature heavily, and he was determined to have the _opposite_ affect on them as he did on the Horntail. They were simply ordinary beings and the tournament was disrupting their way of life. It wouldn't be right to cause any harm.

As such, he'd decided that it was imperative that he learn more of their culture, though the literature on the subject was woefully inept. Each passage was written with an air of condescension, as though they were not loving, intelligent beings and instead hateful beasts that couldn't comprehend _anything_ beyond their own hunger. There was no respect shown to them. Even their _culture_ was dismissed as 'crude'.

And so, Harry knew that he'd have to speak to Dumbledore about the subject. He'd gotten the password to his office from McGonagall, though it was with the promise that he visit it her with Eikthrynir, as she seemed enamored with him.

"Insight." Harry spoke into Dumbledore's office door, and thus it swung open.

Dumbledore's office was much tidier as of late, the vestiges of his time as a politician removed, leaving only the trinkets that he'd collected over his years. There were no towering stacks of paperwork threatening to topple, only prevented in doing so by the magic of the Headmaster. Before, the room seemed to more of a monument to Dumbledore's own power, and now it looked like a teacher's room. Harry preferred it far more this way.

"Harry, do come in," Dumbledore said, though he could not see Harry, for he was inspecting an object upon one of his many shelves. When he was younger, Harry had once asked Albus if he had eyes in the back of his head, for he always knew when Harry was approaching, though now Harry knew that the ability was simply a byproduct of Dumbledore's intuitive understanding of magic. "Eikthyrnir, I'm glad you've returned. Fawkes had been asking of you."

Eikthrynir loped through the office ahead of Harry to Fawkes, the pair of them holding eye contact far too human for any animal other than the pair of them. Harry watched as the pair of them had a non-verbal conversation, before they immediately fled the office; Eikthrynir through the door, and Fawkes through Dumbledore's open window.

"I suspect they're just going to stretch their legs," Dumbledore said, taking the object from the shelf into his hands. "Do you know what this is, Harry?"

"I've no idea, Professor," Harry said, looking at the odd object in his hands. "It looks like a lighter, but with runes up the sides."

Dumbledore smiled. "Oddly, it performs the very opposite action," he said. He lit up the end of his wand silently. "If one were to activate this," which he did, and at once the light was extinguished. "Light is taken from the room and stored, to be used later."

"So, the enchanter has manufactured a method to store energy?" Harry asked, intrigued. "It's genius."

"The enchanter thanks you kindly," Dumbledore said with a grin. "The runes that you see are actually Celtic in origin. I suspect that a similar array would've been seen on the sides on the monoliths of Stonehenge before the winds of time eroded them away."

Harry eyes widened. "So, Stonehenge was actually an energy source of sorts?" Harry asked, before clarifying. "Or, rather an energy conduit."

"Indeed, Harry," Dumbledore said, nodding. "My belief is that, on powerful days such as the solstice, Stonehenge was used to capture the energy of the world, and Celtic mages of the time would draw energy from there, allowing for them to perform great feats of magic."

"Is there any evidence of that, Professor?" Harry asked.

"It is a long held belief that Giant's Causeway was of man-made invention, in order to bridge the gap between Ireland and Scotland, though no-one knew of how any wizard could possibly draw enough power to do such a thing," Dumbledore explained. "Most people thought the mages had gained the employ of giants, hence the name."

"But this runic array is your theory?" Harry asked.

"It is my closest estimate," Dumbledore agreed. "Though runic arrays are not entirely perfect. Stonehenge itself is evidence of that. I think that as the stones eroded, the imbalance of the runes caused volatility, and as such the energy stored was thrown out into the world once more."

"And that's why Stonehenge is still a danger-zone for magic?" Harry finished. Dumbledore nodded. "Professor, what's caused the study into runes? I didn't know you held such an interest."

"Voldemort, in short. I have always known their value, but for a long time I lacked an interest based on their versatility, or lack thereof," Dumbledore said. He moved the object in his hands. "In order for them to be of any use, they would have to be drawn days or weeks in advice, by which time a forthcoming disaster will have already arrived."

"And now?" Harry asked.

"Now, I still hold that belief, but I cannot overlook them despite such an issue," Dumbledore said. "As of late, I've looked into runic arrays drawn upon a body. While volatile, if they are drawn adequately, and infused with the wizard's magic, they will never dissipate."

"It is how many of the old folk-mages gave themselves greater acumen in battle," Harry agreed. "But are they not usually used to strengthen the bond between a wizard's magic and their body, to make them more physically impressive? How could Voldemort have used a runic array to weaken that, in order to allow his magic to exist without a body?"

"That, I do not know," Dumbledore said. "Perhaps he himself devised an entirely new system of runes for that use. Tom Riddle, as he was known at Hogwarts, did possess an aptitude for the subject, though he never did possess a passion for it."

"I can see why he changed his name; Tom is not quite as imposing as Voldemort," Harry commented, and Dumbledore's lips quirked up. "Do you think it's actually possible though, Professor?"

"Through magic, all things are _possible_ ," Dumbledore said. "The question is if they are likely. The other options are actions of evil upon the soul so vile I dare not think on them."

"I imagine Tom would think on them, Professor," Harry said. "I think he'd do just about anything to gain power."

"I fear I do, too," Dumbledore said, gravely. "Though this veers toward a level of self-harm that I did not anticipate from him. To mangle the soul is a deed not taken lightly."

Harry coughed. "I imagine with what else he has done, it would hardly pierce the surface."

"But before, it was always an act on another soul, not his own." Dumbledore said, struggling for the correct words.

"Perhaps, given the power he would then possess, he did not see it as harm," Harry said, his words slow and deliberate. "If one was to gain power over even _death_ , the pain was, to him, worth it for the strength he gained in result."

"I do hope not. I do hope there are boundaries that even _he_ would cross," Dumbledore said. The Headmaster placed the object on his desk, dropping it from his hands. "In any case, I do doubt that such a quandary was the root cause of your presence. What was it that you intended to discuss?"

"I was wondering about the Merfolk, actually." Harry said, a hand running through his hair.

"This has nothing to do with the tournament, I presume?" Dumbledore asked, the very question confirming Harry's thoughts on the second task. Inwardly, he smirked at Dumbledore's choice of words.

"Not at all," Harry lied. "I was simply reading one of your biographies, and the subject caught my interest."

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, in that case, I will happily talk of them," he said, sitting into his chair. "Though there are many works on the species that you could search within for answers."

"I did, Professor, though they were not very helpful," Harry said. "I felt like every single book was written to be as hateful and prejudiced as possible."

"I fear that is because they probably were," Dumbledore confirmed. "Almost every book on magical beings that goes into print is written by a Pureblood for the express purpose of perpetuating long-held beliefs that could not be further from the truth."

"Has anyone attempted to fight against that?" Harry asked.

"Newt Scamander and his family, yes, though they are not in circulation in our country due to the publishing companies being owned by wizards that would prefer for power to stay as it is," Dumbledore said. "The only reason that Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them is sold is because my predecessor Armando Dippet himself owned a print. For a man of three-centuries, he was rather progressive."

Harry looked over to the portrait of the former Headmaster. Armando Dippet sat up within his chair, a deeply proud look adorning his face.

Harry nodded. "So, Merfolk?"

"Yes, much of what you will read of the Merfolk is fabricated to slander them," Dumbledore began. "In truth, they are almost exactly as we are. They love, they fight, and they do not appreciate interruption in their life, especially by someone that shows hostility in doing so. Show them kindness, and they will show you kindness in turn."

"Is that what the other people that write about them did? Show hostility?"

"Without question," Dumbledore said immediately. "Many of them destroyed their monuments and their homes, and after the Merfolk responded in turn, they were dismissed as a lesser race. They are still treated as animals, and we prescribe a threat level to them, despite any violence that humans face from being of our own design."

"But don't they insist on being called beasts?" Harry asked.

"They do indeed - a point that many believe to be a symptom of their lesser status," Dumbledore said. "It could not be further from the truth. Merfolk believe in progress. They believe that, only when they reach the pinnacle of their own selves, do they deserve the value of personhood. Mostly though, due to the harsh treatment they have received from wizards, they reject any judgement from us at all."

"So, if I were to interact with them, what would you recommend I do?" Harry asked, his words careful.

"Well, if you were _forced_ into such a situation and you so happened to interact with Merfolk, I'd recommend doing what you would do if you were intruding into another person's home," Dumbledore explained. "Be courteous, do not antagonise them, and leave everything as you found it. But most of all, treat them with respect; their intention is never to hurt you. They will only do such a thing if you force them to."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry said, gratitude, and relief, in his eyes.

"As a man who dedicates his life to education, it would be wrong of me to stunt a student's pursuit of knowledge." Dumbledore said, smiling.

"Even so, I highly appreciate it," Harry said. "Are you enjoying your free time, now that you wear far fewer hats?"

"Indeed I am, though in truth I do not think of it as having more _free_ time, just more time that I can direct to the things that truly matter," Dumbledore explained. "I've spent a long time reviewing the curriculum at Hogwarts, and have corrected much of the areas I found misguided. Professor Binns, for example, will be enjoying his final year as an educator and much of his subject will change in the following years, so as to better prepare students for our world."

"I'm sure every student will thank you for that."

"I think, much as the goblin wars were important, studying our recent history will be of more use to the next generations," Dumbledore said. "Certainly, when second and third-years do not know the name _Grindelwald_ , it seems to be cause for concern."

"I'm glad to hear that you're doing what you were born to do, Headmaster."

"And I'm glad to be doing it," Dumbledore said. "I have you to thank for it, too. Without you, I do not think I'd have seen the error of my ways."

"I just want the best for you, Headmaster." Harry said.

"You were a positive change, Harry, and I can only thank you for that."

Eikthrynir ran through the door then, panting, just as Fawkes burned into their presence. The two looked tired, though there was joy to be found in their eyes. Harry reached up and stroked his fur, and Dumbledore passed Fawkes a treat.

* * *

January, it seemed, brought with it a cold far less severe than that of December. The lands were still glossed with snow, but the coverage was not as deep, and ice did not coat the branches of the trees.

Harry found himself walking the grounds of Hogwarts with Eikthyrnir. Ordinarily, his walks were confined to the castle itself, but as of late the corridors were busier than usual, and Harry could tell that his deer friend preferred to be outside.

Eikthyrnir was a constant companion for Harry, in spirit if not in body. There was a connection that they shared, beyond anything that Harry could even begin to explain. Eikthyrnir was always at the periphery of his mind, his being a constant source of familiarity and comfort for Harry. Just in knowing that he was safe, and that he was comfortable about the grounds of Hogwarts, Harry breathed easier, and life seemed ever-so-slightly lighter.

He seemed fascinated with magic; Harry's magic, in particular. As they walked, Harry would draw shapes in the sky out of bursts of magic - no spells in particular, simply allowing magic to flow through him and out of his wand - and Eikthyrnir would watch, mesmerised. Harry would watch as Eikthyrnir drank from the Black Lake, the water dancing as he did so, mesmerised too.

Harry contended himself then with timing his steps to his heartbeat, the process relaxing him. While he was atop the peak, he had a pure focus that he wished to return to. While its cause was not one he would cling to, the result, Eikthyrnir included, was something that he admired.

However, his focus was robbed of him as he heard a voice behind him. "'Arry!"

Fleur ran over, her hair in a ponytail that bounced up and down as she did. She wore a large overcoat to shield herself from the elements, though the effect was hindered as she wore her short, Beauxbatons skirt and long, blue socks. She hugged him in greeting, holding him close to her, and Harry tentatively hugged her back.

"Hey Fleur," Harry said. He watched her shiver, her arms rubbing up and down one-another to create friction. "Are you cold?"

" _Oui_ ," Fleur said, her teeth chattering slightly. "I am from Saint-Tropez, so I am not well acquainted with such weather."

Harry unwrapped his Gryffindor scarf, offering it wordlessly to Fleur. She nodded immediately, and wrapped herself in it quicker than Harry thought possible.

She sighed, in comfort, as the wool surrounded her long neck. "Thank you _so_ much, 'Arry."

"It has a warming charm upon it." Harry offered.

"Did you place that upon it yourself?" Fleur asked, her hands now buried in warmth of her coat pockets.

"Oh God no," Harry said, chuckling. "I don't have the talent to put a permanent charm on anything."

"You say that, and yet you can conjure lightning without issue?"

"I wouldn't say _without_ issue." Harry said, as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Then you would be modest," Fleur said, smiling at him. "So, how is it that a _man_ such as you can do that, and yet cannot perform a permanent warming charm?"

"I've never really been any good at Charms," Harry admitted. "Transfiguration was always my strong suit."

"Indeed, though I fear you are again being modest," Fleur said, retrieving her wand from her pocket and rolling it between her fingertips. "For myself, I am the opposite. Even as a child, I would make the flowers in my home dance, but for my life I could not make one a lion."

"You used a charm on the dragon, didn't you?" Harry inquired, watching Eikthrynir run in the distance.

"Of sorts," Fleur said, earning a look of confusion from Harry. "It was part charm, and partly a use of a Veela power. Though I _detest_ parts of my heritage, it offers me an awareness in Charms that affect people that I would otherwise not have."

"So what was it?" Harry asked.

"Well, Veela are able to place others in a state of euphoria that calms them. To a person, this would be enough, but to a dragon, not so," Fleur explained, her blue eyes bright as she talked of Charms. "But for a dragon, I altered the sleeping charm to accommodate this power."

"That's incredible." Harry breathed out.

"It was adequate," Fleur said, her nose wrinkling. "I got the clue, but I damaged the eggs."

"Well, I slayed my dragon, so I think yours is slightly better." Harry said. Fleur smiled.

"I do not think so," Fleur said. "Vanquishing a beast like a dragon is something that a hero in a fairytale would do."

"It's a shame this is not a fairytale, then." Harry said, his voice filled with self-deprecation.

"It is, indeed," Fleur said. "Does it not anger you, though?" Fleur's eyes widened. "To be judged as you were."

"It does, but I don't expect anything less," Harry replied. "I am the fourth champion. A champion to no-one, really. They don't have a reason to score me well. There's no repercussions if they don't, and I wasn't supposed to be in the tournament to begin with."

"I disagree," Fleur said, vehemently. "You are a person, just like each of us. You deserve the treatment we receive, or the tournament is not worth the breath it takes to speak its name."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, Fleur," he said. "But I don't think it's going to happen."

"Well, I hope it does," Fleur said. "Now that Bagman has been suspended for gambling, things should change."

"Did he try and make you throw the first task, too?" Harry asked, curious.

Fleur laughed. "Oui, he did," she said. "He told me that no-one would expect a half-breed like me to succeed, and I very nearly burned him alive."

"He never did strike me as very smart." Harry said. Fleur smiled.

"I wonder if he proposed such a plan to the other two." Fleur said.

"I'm surprised Cedric didn't say yes." Harry muttered, beneath his breath.

Fleur's eyes widened. "You two do not get along still?"

Harry shook his head. "We never did to begin with," he explained. "He hasn't done anything to gain back trust or respect."

"That is odd," Fleur said. "One would think that two people from the same school, both in the tournament, would befriend one-another."

"I'd rather befriend a shark," Harry said, immediately. "At least then you know where its teeth are."

The pair strolled through the grounds, and into the area that was next to the Quidditch pitch.

"You know, I did not know that the warming charm existed until I was twelve?" Fleur said, and Harry smiled. "For the first twelve years of my life, I was never cold enough to ever think of needing one. I miss those years, now."

Harry laughed. "I didn't know about it until I was eleven either, but that's because I grew up muggle," he said. "It's one of the first charms we're taught."

"You grew up muggle?" Fleur asked, surprised. "But is your family not magical?"

"The Potters are wizards, yeah, but because of my parents, I grew up with my muggle relatives." Harry explained, and Fleur frowned.

"And they didn't tell you about magic?"

"Er, no." Harry said.

"How horrid." Fleur said.

"It's in the past," Harry said, and he truly meant it. "What is the magical world in France like?"

Fleur smiled. "It's quite lovely," she said, her face brightening up. "It is not like your world. There is less _mess_ than yours. Each and every stone is perfect. To my eyes, there is nothing more beautiful than the streets of the magical quarter of Paris. The buildings are art - you must visit."

"I'd love to." Harry breathed.

"Unlike muggle France, our palaces were not attacked during the revolutions, so they all still stand," Fleur said. "The palace of my home was built in the late-Renaissance, and truly I adore it. No other building could compare."

"Is it your family home?"

"My Papa's family, yes," Fleur said. "My Mother is from Bulgaria, though we do not see much of them; Mother is embarrassed of them."

"How come?" Harry asked, as they stepped into Quidditch stands.

"They are…rustic," Fleur explained. "They are Veela, and so they keep to themselves; we Veela are not treated well by others. Mother thinks they are embarrassing as they do not wish to climb the ladder as she does."

"I'm sorry." Harry said.

"It is okay," Fleur said, with a shrug of her shoulders. "Though I worry for my sister. If I leave Gabrielle to her, Merlin only knows what will become of her."

Harry and Fleur finished their walk, choosing to take a seat at the top of the stands, their places next to one-another, so that their knees touched each other's as they talked.

"Are you two close?" Harry asked.

" _Very_ ," Fleur said. "She is my whole world. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to her."

"What's she like?" Harry asked, his green eyes bright and wide.

"She's the purest soul I know," Fleur said, smiling wistfully. "She is eight, and she never stops smiling. She knows nothing of pain, or of the treatment we Veela face and honestly I never wish her to. It's a cruel fate that one as beautiful as her should not know."

"She sounds amazing," Harry said, and Fleur smiled the brightest smile Harry had ever seen on her. "I wish I had siblings."

Fleur's bright blue eyes dimmed. "I am sorry that the world has treated you so unkindly." she said, and Harry knew that she meant it.

"I would not be who I am without it," Harry said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'd really have loved a little brother or sister with me, though."

"I could not imagine life without Gabrielle," Fleur admitted. "Her happiness means the world to me."

The pair of them looked onto the Quidditch pitch, the snow fallen on the grass like icing atop a giant cake. Eikthyrnir ran through the snow, carefree, tracing patterns upon the frosted grass.

"He is quite the creature," Fleur said, looking as the giant deer played. "I've never seen anything like him."

"Nor have I," Harry said. "I try not to question how or why he is in my life, I just enjoy the peace I have with him."

"As you should," Fleur said. "I must admit I do envy your bond. When I was younger, I used to beg Mother for a familiar, but she would always say no."

"I'm sorry." Harry said, as he often found himself saying of her Mother. A pebble of dislike lodged itself within his stomach for her.

"I would often see a small raven in the window of a pet shop in Paris, and I would beg my mother to let me take her home, but she used to say that birds only caused messes, and that they were demeaning to our heritage," Fleur said, staring out into the distance. "As I got older, I would watch the raven grow in its cage, and I would ask my mother each time to allow me to take her home, and she would always say no. This year, I went alone because my Mother was busy and I could finally apparate and I told myself that I would get the raven and my Mother could just suffer."

"What happened?" Harry asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"She wasn't there," Fleur said, her eyes sad. "I asked the shopkeeper, and they told me she had died."

"I'm sorry." Harry said. What was once a pebble of dislike, quickly became a rock of hate.

Fleur placed her head on Harry's shoulder, and Harry felt her settle into him. Harry simply kept still.

"Well, when it's time for Gabrielle to go, you will make sure she gets her raven." Harry whispered.

Fleur grinned, her lips splitting open. "I will," she said. "I absolutely will."

The pair them sat together for a time, the silence only interrupted by Eikthyrnir's bounding steps and the rustling of the wind in the trees.

"Does anyone else know about that?" Harry asked, after a while, his words spoken into her hair.

"No," Fleur said softly, her voice higher than usual. "I think you're the first one I've ever told."

Eikthrynir bounded over to them then, his strides powerful as he raised himself through the stands, barely touching the ground as he passed through the air.

Fleur moved from Harry's side and to Eikthrynir. He nuzzled his nose into Fleur's neck, ducking his head down to do so. Both of her hands ran through his coat, her expression changed into euphoria in a moment.

"'Arry?"

"Yeah?"

"When you asked me of France, I told you that nothing was more beautiful," Fleur said, grinning as Eikthrynir played with her. "I fear I misspoke. It is beautiful, true, but it is not as beautiful as your friend. He's _incredible_."

Harry laughed. "I'm worried that if people keep complimenting him, his shoulders won't be able to support the weight of his head." Harry said, moving over to them.

"It is true, though," Fleur said. "Every word of it."

And, for the briefest of moments, Harry heard Neville's words echo through his mind. To simply _look_ at another girl. And so, he did.

Fleur stood there, a hand running through Eikthrynir's fur, a bright grin filling her face. Her eyes, a blue as clear as the water that Eikthrynir was saved in, dancing with life. Her cheekbones graceful, her face perfectly symmetrical, her chin perfect. She was beauty brought to life in front of his eyes - the very air around her seemed to brighten in her presence.

Harry felt the tectonic plates in his heart shift painfully as he looked her. It hurt, but he knew it _had_ to happen. If he wanted to move on, he had to do it. And Fleur's beauty was undeniable.

Harry moved, so that his hip grazed against Fleur's, his hand a hair's breadth away from hers. He felt Fleur react beside him, her body seemingly coming to life as his side touched hers.

Then, she moved her hand the tiny distance between the two of them, so that two of her elegant fingers overlapped with his. Her other hand came to his neck, her fingers laced into his hair. His hands came to her waist, gently holding her there.

Harry looked into Fleur's gorgeous blue eyes; he found a gentle, kind beauty there.

And then, he kissed her. Her lips, soft and red and immaculately perfect, against his.

As they broke apart, Fleur smiled. A warm smile; it reminded him of the sun, in August.

And, hesitantly, Harry smiled back.

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed it. As I said, I read every review, and I appreciate all of them.**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading.**

 **Until next time!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Hi everyone!**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter - it clears up things that I know a lot of you have been asking about for almost _two years_ now.**

 **As always, I really appreciate every review I receive, they're the main reason that I write. Your words are always wonderful to see, and I hope you continue to write them. If you have a question that you'd like answering, my PMs are open, so just send me a message and I'll reply back.**

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 **Thank you!**

* * *

In truth, after he and Fleur kissed, Harry did not know what to expect.

He didn't know what she wanted. He didn't know what he wanted either, in truth.

The very fact that someone as beautiful as her would want to kiss him made very little sense, but he was certainly glad that she did. There was an odd comfort to spending time with Fleur that he rarely found elsewhere, and he would never regret kissing her.

On the other hand, he couldn't ignore the ache of his chest he'd felt afterward. Tonks was still a wound upon him, and Fleur's presence was a balm to the pain, but it did not stitch together the skin. That wound, he realised, would have to heal naturally, and that took time.

Nonetheless, when he awoke the next morning to a letter on the door of his room from her, he could admit that his heart raced just slightly at the sight of it.

She wrote:

 _I'd like for you to come to my carriage this afternoon. It is the one closest to the lake._

 _Fleur_

 _-x-_

A rush of shock ran through Harry as he read it, mostly that she would want to see him again so soon. Immediately, his anxious mind told him that she wished to tell him that their kiss was a mistake, and that she didn't want it to cloud anything for the Triwizard Tournament. And, honestly, he did not know how he felt about that.

He could not doubt that Fleur was _unfathomably_ beautiful. She held the sort of utter magnificence that people fought wars over. And, despite everything, her company was not utter agony, but rather the opposite. She was kind, intelligent and above all she knew when silence was the only sound that was needed.

But he could not deny the ache in his chest whenever he thought on her. The part of his heart that burned each time he allowed his eyes to pass over _her_ beauty, and not the first beauty his heart had called for.

Harry knew that he was not over Tonks, but did that mean that he couldn't _try_?

He just didn't know. And where there was doubt, there was fear.

Nonetheless, he still found himself walking over to her carriage that afternoon, his mind too cluttered with the cloud of anxiety that had formed to be of any use elsewhere. In the interim, he'd ran his hands through his hair so often that it stuck out in every direction, his hands clenching with such frequent veracity that the skin of his palms had been rendered bright red for the foreseeable future.

As he walked outside, the sun made its first appearance of January, appearing low in the sky, almost blindingly so. Nonetheless, the heat of the star had burned away the fog that pervade throughout the grounds, a clear view of the wilds of Scotland offered for the first time in a month. The grounds no longer held frost, and the top of the Black Lake had thawed, the Giant Squid making its first appearance in 1995.

The air still held a cold chill that served to numb the worry that Harry held, his hands shivering only due to the temperature outside, rather than any internal struggle. His legs remained firmly under him and, as he approached Fleur's door, his hand did not shake as he knocked once, twice, thrice.

There was a light sound of footsteps and Fleur peeked the door open, her face brightening as she caught sight of who was on the other side. The sight served to put Harry at ease.

"'Arry," Fleur said, her voice light. "I did not expect you so soon," she opened the door further, offering Harry a view into her room. He briefly wondered if it was odd that she had her own room, or that Beauxbatons was so affluent that each student had their own, or that because she was their champion she had earned the distinction. "Please - come in."

Fleur looked as incredible as ever, though her appearance was not as it often was. There was no make-up to accent her perfect features, her clothes comfortable rather than the elegant affectations she usually wore, her hair wavy.

Harry looked toward her; their eyes met and neither could look away. Harry fought the urge to rock on his heels, or run a hand through his too-long hair. Fleur, for her part, simply smiled.

"So, what was it that you wanted to talk about?" Harry asked, immediately feeling foolish for saying such a thing. Fleur smiled brighter, and the sight stopped him from fumbling over his own words to rectify his mistake.

Fleur sat at the edge of her bed and gestured for Harry to join her there, which he did without pause.

"'Arry, you do not need to worry," Fleur said, though her words did not have the affect she had intended. "I didn't invite you here to kill you or anything, I just wished to clarify certain things."

"Oh."

Fleur leaned forward ever-so-slightly. Not so much that they were touching, but a small shift, so that they were within one-another's space. "'Arry, we kissed yesterday," she said, softly, her voice cushioning the bluntness of her words. "Now, I must confess I don't regret it at all," Fleur took a deep breath, and as she settled herself, the tips of her fingers met Harry's. "In fact, I'm glad that it happened, but I am a little confused as to _why_ it happened."

Words were left unspoken, but there was no doubt as to what Fleur meant. Harry ran a hand through his hair once more, and took a deep breath of his own.

Harry settled himself, his eyes staring down at his shoes. "I don't know, Fleur," he said, honestly. "I don't really know how I feel right now. All I know is that I wanted to kiss you, and I don't regret doing it."

Fleur grinned, and Harry laced their fingers together.

"That's all I wanted to hear," Fleur said, gently squeezing his hand. "'Arry, I understand that what happened with you and Tonks has left you out of sorts. I know your feelings for her haven't disappeared overnight, and I don't expect them to."

"So, what are you saying?" Harry asked, her words calming him.

"I'm saying that I don't suddenly expect things to be perfect, 'Arry," Fleur said, her thumb rubbing against his red palm. "I know it will take time for you to work out how you feel, and I'm saying that I want to help you with that."

Harry's eyes flicked up and found Fleur's blue eyes holding only calm and reassurance.

"Thank you, Fleur." Harry said, taking her other hand in his.

"I know it's difficult, and I don't wish for us to rush things," Fleur said. "We can take things as fast or as slow as you need to, but I just…I just like you, 'Arry, and I simply wish to spend as much of my time with you as I can."

Harry smiled. "I like you too," he said, and he truly meant it. He took a deep, easy breath. "You're being so nice with this."

"It's what you do for people you care about," said Fleur, giving Harry an almost _bashful_ smile. "You help them, and you put them before yourself."

Harry crossed the small distance, kissing her softly, her lips smiling against his. His arms wrapped around her, her hands ghosting against the pale skin of his cheekbones.

"I'm glad I did that, too," Harry whispered as they broke apart, his forehead resting against hers. "So, what does this make us?"

Fleur smiled. "It doesn't matter, 'Arry," she said. "Placing a name on it will not help. You are 'Arry, and I am Fleur. Calling it anything else will only complicate things. I like you, and you like me - that's all that matters."

Harry smiled, his chest calm for the first time since he had read her note that morning. He kissed her once more, feeling her body settle into his, their bodies finding their place with one-another. He felt her hands run through his hair, deftly caressing the strands as her lips met his. He cupped her jaw, her face held like artwork in his hands.

Harry stopped abruptly, pulling the two of them apart, his eyes widening. "What about the tournament?" he asked.

Fleur's hand came to his face, stroking his cheek reassuringly. "Nothing will change there," she said. "We are still competitors, and we'll treat each other the same way as we would have done if we were not as we are now."

"So nothing changes?" Harry clarified.

"Nothing at all." Fleur agreed.

Harry reached up, rolling a stray hair behind Fleur's ear, his skin caressing the shell as he did, his hand resting upon the back of her neck. Fleur shivered.

"Thank you for being amazing." Harry said.

"It is time that you get what you deserve." Fleur said, and closed the distance.

* * *

To say that Harry was dreading talking to Sirius and Neville was an understatement.

He knew that he ought not to be. Neville was a friend and Sirius was his Godfather; those things meant a great deal to him. The issue was that it felt an awful lot like when the Dursleys used to go out on trips and they couldn't get a babysitter so Harry would have to come.

Nonetheless, he still pulled himself away from Dumbledore's notebook as the time came, and took himself toward the fireplace in the Alchemy staff room, though it was difficult. The Dumbledore notebook was fascinating.

He'd had to translate some of the earlier notes, though he was glad that he had. The basis of the summoning charm, the wand motions for modern conjuration and much of the fire-based Transfiguration used today was to be found within its pages. The Dumbledores were a prolific family and the deeper he delved into their work, the more engrossed he became, and the more touched he was that he was the one chosen to be the holder of this great knowledge.

More impressive, however, was the evidence of Albus' thought process. The man linked together parts of magic in a manner that Harry would have otherwise thought impossible. His connection of Alchemy, Potions and Magizoology to discover the uses of Dragon's Blood left Harry in absolute awe at the genius of his mind.

However, rather disappointingly, there was still no clue of how to survive in the Black Lake water for an hour. Harry hoped that perhaps a conversation with Sirius would provide some insight.

The Marauder's Map was as much help as ever, though the Slytherin presence had heavily diminished after Harry's retaliation on Malfoy. Harry suspected that their near-constant presence was an effort in establishing fear in the rest of the school, and thus commanding power over them. After Harry had entirely undercut such an effort and exposed Malfoy for what he truly was, any further action would be an exercise in futility.

Harry walked into the staff-room to find Neville already there, sat on the carpet with his legs crossed. He waved at Harry in greeting, his blond hair swishing to one side as he turned. Harry lifted his head in response.

"Cool, you're here," Neville said, by way of greeting. "Sirius isn't great with time, so I thought I'd better to get here before, just in case he was early."

Neville's words felt abrasive in Harry's ears, but he ignored the sensation. "How long have you been here?"

"About an hour," Neville replied, a chuckle in his voice. "When I said he was bad with time, I mean he's _bad_. He'd be late to his own funeral."

Harry grit his teeth. "When was the last time you spoke to him?" he asked, a lightness to his tone altogether forced.

"Oh, I think we spoke last week," Neville said, casually. "Though we spoke on Thursday and Saturday," his eyes briefly flickered toward the fire, checking for any activity. "He seemed in pretty high spirits, actually, now that he's back at his old home."

"He moved there permanently?" Harry asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, it's as close to impossible to find as it could possibly be, so he's pretty safe," Neville explained. "He said he's missing the company of what he had before, but it's worth it if it means he doesn't _die_."

"Fidelius Charm?" Harry asked, the irritation at this knowledge being second-hand news becoming steadily more agitative.

"Yeah," Neville agreed, nodding. "He's his own secret keeper, so as long as no-one sees him, he'll be safe."

"How's he getting food and stuff?" Harry asked.

"The Black family elf still lives there and he helps him around," Neville said, his eye once more glancing toward the fire. "He hates Sirius though, so it's a challenge."

At once, the fire flared green and from the fire, Sirius' head appeared.

"Hi lads," Sirius greeted. Harry was struck with how much healthier he looked, the change noticeable even between their last two conversations. He had filled out, his beard clean and full, his hair no longer mangy. "I trust no-one followed you here?"

Both Harry and Neville shook their heads.

"Good," Sirius said. "So, what was it that you wanted to discuss?"

"There's a prophecy," Neville said, bluntly. "It says that either me or Harry have to be one to defeat Voldemort in the end, and if we don't, no-one else can."

"I know."

"You know?" Harry asked, leaning toward the fire.

Sirius nodded.

"And you didn't _tell_ us?" Harry asked, incredulous, the weight of everything beginning to build upon him.

"How exactly would I go about doing that?" Sirius questioned. "It is yet another thing that I cannot simply send via owl," Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "It was a closely guarded secret in the Order. It isn't something we were letting out without care."

"I don't care _how_ you told us, all I want is for you to tell us," Harry said, though Neville was silent beside him. "It what's you do. If something like this comes to your attention, don't you think your _Godson_ and the person who saved your life deserve to know?"

"I was hoping that Neville already _had_ beaten Voldemort and it wouldn't be an issue."

Harry grit his teeth and swallowed his rage, for yet another person had hurt him over _hope_.

"You should do more than _hope_ , Sirius," Harry said, and Sirius frowned. "Aren't we people that you care about. Surely if you have knowledge over something that's going to shape our lives, even if there's only a tiny chance of it happening, you would tell us?"

"As I said, there was never a chance to tell you." Sirius defended, his hand appearing in the fire, raised in surrender, though Harry was not calmed by the gesture.

"Then _make_ a chance!" Harry exclaimed. "This is just the entire story with you, isn't it?" Harry ground his teeth. "First you never have the right time to tell me that who you were, or that you were my Godfather, or that you were trying to avenge my parents. And then, even after that, you still never make time for me, and you barely ever send messages."

Sirius took a deep breath. "Harry, if you'd calm do-"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me to calm down!" Harry raged, standing up and beginning to pace the floor. "I'm _angry_ , and I think I deserve to be!" Harry clenched his jaw. "You're supposed to be my Godfather."

"Harry, I _am_ your Godfather," Sirius said, attempting to reassure him. "Look, I know I've not been there when I ought to have been, but I have a lot to do before I can be the person that you need," he took a deep breath. "You didn't seem to mind before."

"I was making exceptions for you before." Harry said, quietly.

"Anyway, can we put this to bed, so that we can get on to Voldemort?" Neville asked, sitting between the pair of them as their argument had unfolded. "Harry, I agree that we should've known earlier, but we _didn't_ , so we have to move on now."

"Fine." Harry gritted out.

"Alright," Neville said, faux-brightly. "So, Sirius, what do you think we should do?"

"Okay, so I think first some backstory is due," Sirius said, clearing his mind. "Now, back in the first war, Voldemort was in power and in order to strike fear into families that would've otherwise fought against him, he targeted children. The McKinnon, Doge, Prewett, and Diggle lines have all ended as a result of that. It was a real time of mass hysteria. People were terrified."

"So, do you think he did this because of the prophecy?" Neville asked.

"Yes," Sirius agreed. "Now, what we knew was that Voldemort had heard only part of the prophecy, and so he didn't know when his enemy was born, only that they would have the power to defeat him. As a result, the full knowledge of the prophecy was a heavily guarded secret, and my approach with you two was a hold over from that. We knew that it would be one of you two, and we couldn't let that knowledge slip out."

"Okay, I think we both understand that," Neville said. "What do we do?"

"First, listen to Dumbledore," Sirius said. "Neither of you are going to be able to match Voldemort head on, no matter how talented either of you are, so keep yourself safe until the time comes," Sirius turned toward Neville. "Neville, do you remember the cloak I gave you?" Neville nodded. "Keep that on you at all times. You have no idea how important keeping yourself unseen might be. It got James and I ought of an awful lot in my day."

Harry's blood ran cold.

"I'm sorry, what?" Harry asked.

Sirius' eyes went wide, as though he were a deer in the headlights. "It helped me and James out, is all."

"So, it was your cloak?" Harry asked. "Like a family heirloom, or something?"

Silence met his question.

"Sirius, was it a family heirloom?" Harry asked, his jaw clenched so that the words were forced out. "Was it a Black family heirloom?"

"No Harry, it wasn't."

"So, did you buy it or something?" Harry asked.

"No Harry, no I didn't," Sirius said, not even meeting Harry's eyes. "It was James' cloak."

"It was my _father's_ cloak?" Harry asked. "You gave my _Dad's_ cloak to someone else?"

"Yes Harry, I did," Sirius said. "But you _have_ to know I _had_ to. If I didn't, Neville would've had to face the dementors and I'd have been caught."

"What gave you the _right_?" Harry asked, the anger pouring from him. "You know what, I don't care anymore. If you can just throw about _my_ Dad's property, and you don't care enough to think about me, I don't need you."

Harry walked out of the room, and left Sirius behind.

* * *

Harry wandered aimlessly for a while, his anger fueling his steps. As he paced the halls, the straggling groups of his peers pushing the limits of their curfews avoided his eyes, clearing a path through the halls as he paced.

In the end, and he did not know how or why, he found himself at Dumbledore's office, the doors opening without prompting.

Dumbledore himself was surprised, shock slipping through his usually calm facade, his eyes peering up from the parchment that rested on his desk.

"Harry, I did not expect to see you today," Dumbledore said, sitting back into his chair as his blue eyes inspected Harry and the anger that seemed to permeate through his skin. "Is everything alright?"

Harry breathed heavily, forcing air into his lungs, and began to pace the floor in front of Dumbledore's desk. "No, everything's not alright," he said. "Did you know that Neville has my Dad's cloak?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, truthfully I did not," he said. "I knew that he possessed _an_ invisibility cloak, but I did not know that it was your father's. I had thought that it was _his_ father's cloak from when he was in the Aurors."

"That's not all," Harry said, his neck stiffening from the tension in his body. "Do you know who gave it to him?"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"It was _Sirius_ ," Harry said. " _My Godfather_. The man that was supposed to care about me, and the person who was supposed to care about _my_ Dad gave it to him. How could he?"

Dumbledore brandished his wand, and transfigured the chair opposite his desk into something more comfortable. "Harry, take a seat. Wearing a hole in my carpet will not help anything," he said, his tone kind, and Harry acquiesced. "I'm sorry to hear about what he did. I know that anything that belonged to your parents would've meant the world to you, and I'm sorry that it wasn't rightfully given to you."

"Thank you." Harry said.

"Now, is that the reason that you're angry?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry took a moment, allowing his breathing to regulate, to contemplate his thoughts.

"I'm angry that it was _Sirius_ who gave it to him," Harry said. "This is my Godfather, you know? Someone who was apparently my Dad's best friend."

Dumbledore took of his glasses. "Harry, if I may speak freely?" he asked, and Harry nodded. "Just because he's _supposed_ to be something, does not necessarily mean they are. He may be those things, but he is above all a person, and people are not perfect. To give someone care or respect because of a title you've given them in your mind is unwise because they do not deserve it. It is _just_ a title, it doesn't mean a thing unless he acts like it."

Harry swallowed a deep breath, and allowed his jaw to loosen a notch. "I suppose so," he said, doubtfully. "I just really _hoped_ he would be. He was one of the few people that knew my parents, and I really hoped he'd care."

"That is an admirable thing," Dumbledore said. "You tried to see the best in him, even though there was little 'best' to see, but I fear that sometimes people are not who we want them to be."

"But _someone_ has to be, don't they?" Harry asked, a naivety to his voice. "It can't be that everyone in my life just hurts you, or disappoints you, or doesn't care about you? At some point, someone has to care, don't they?"

Dumbledore sat up in his chair, a candid look in his eyes. "They will, Harry, that I promise," he said. "You will find someone in your life who will not hurt you, or put others before you. You will find love, and you will find happiness. All that you need is to have faith that it will happen, and it will."

"Did it for you?" Harry asked, quietly, his eye not reaching Dumbledore's.

"It did," Albus said. "In my younger years, I faced the things that you did. Hurt, and pain and disappointment. But as I grew older, and I found happiness in my work and with myself, the pain went away. Though, having true friends to help me through it is what helped in the end."

Harry stayed silent, allowing Dumbledore's words to fall upon him.

"It is worth saying that I care for you," Albus said, his blue eyes looking into Harry's green eyes. "There will always be a place in my office for you, should you need it."

Harry nodded, and allowed his bones to sink into his chair for the first time.

"When I was your age, I seemed to spend my entire life angry," Albus said. "I was angry at the world for being born in a place as quiet as Godric's Hollow. I was angry for being born to a middling family, and I was angry that I wasn't respected by my peers because of what my father had done. That anger made me a better wizard, and a stronger individual, but it was what eventually pushed me toward Gellert, and what followed was only pain," Dumbledore returned his glasses to his face. "What I suppose I'm saying here is that anger may feel powerful now, but if you allow yourself to simply sink into anger, you will never find happiness. Anger is necessary, but it is not what we should base ourselves upon."

The very issue then, for Harry, was that there was very little within him _other_ than anger, these days.

"So, what should I do?"

"Look for the good things in your life," Albus said, simply. "Find joy where joy is to be found. In the incredible work you can do with the Northern Magics. In the people that you've finally allowed into your life. In Eikthyrnir."

A dawning lightness fell over Harry then, and he _understood_. That was not to say that he was not angry, far from it.

"Thank you, Sir," Harry said, rising from his chair. "For everything."

"My door is always open, Harry," Albus said. "In your case, that is meant quite literally."

Harry knew then where he needed to be.

* * *

The sun's long absence in the sky covered Harry from sight as he walked through the grounds of Hogwarts and toward the Beauxbatons carriage, until the light that emanated from the carriages themselves brought him into view once more.

He knocked on Fleur's door twice, and before his fist reached the wood for the third time, she opened the door, a surprised look upon her face, though the surprise was accented with joy.

She wrapped both of her arms around his neck, and his came to her waist at once.

"'Arry, I didn't expect to see you," Fleur said, pulling his face into the warmth of her neck. "Is everything okay?"

Harry nodded into her skin. "Yeah, I just wanted to see you is all," he mumbled. "Can I come in?"

Fleur nodded, and lead him in without breaking their contact.

They sat on her bed, not on the edge, but cross-legged on top of the duvet. Harry did not move from her side, finding comfort in the warmth of her.

"Are you sure?" Fleur asked, softly.

"Something kinda shit happened today, and I just wanted some company I s'pose, and you were the first person I wanted to see," Harry said. "Do you mind?"

Fleur shook her head. "Not at all," she said. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," Harry replied, his voice candid. "Can you just…distract me for a bit?"

"Of course." Fleur said, with a smile in her voice.

He and Fleur fell into the duvet, lying beside one another. Fleur took his hand into both of hers, tracing the edges of his fingers with hers. The sensation was soft, almost ticklish, but not unpleasant. Then, her eyes flicked up to his, the calm held within in the swirling blues arresting, and he could not look away.

"You do have the most beautiful eyes, 'Arry." Fleur said.

Harry smiled. "They're my mother's."

Fleur shook her head against the sheets of her bed. "No, they're yours," Fleur said, softly. "There is something so _you_ inside of them. It's like your soul is in there."

Harry fought the urge to move under the gaze. He simply could not look away.

"I'm glad that you like them." Harry said, eventually, for want of anything else.

"How could I not?" Fleur asked. "It is not often that one can look into someone's eyes and see everything that they are."

Harry smiled, and pressed a kiss to her cheek, feeling her skin dimpling against his lips. He pulled his head back, just slightly, and took in the beauty before him.

"You really are beautiful, Fleur." Harry said, weight in the earnest of his words.

Fleur laughed, her laugh as light as every part of her. "You know, a lot of people have said that to me, but with you I get the feeling that you mean it."

Harry smiled. "It's hard not to mean it," he said. "To just look at you would tell anyone that."

Fleur pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "And yet, with you, I _know_ you are not attempting to deceive," she said. "You know, I grew up around Veela, so I was always a bit of an ugly duckling compared to the others."

" _Really_?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Fleur said, with a smile. "Even as I grew a little older, all the eyes would be on them. I miss that, I think."

"I was always the black sheep with my relatives," Harry said, the usual aggravation at discussing the Dursleys absent. "They were all pretty large, and loud, and brash, so I stuck out like a sore a thumb."

"Do you miss that at all?" Fleur asked. "I know that you did not enjoy it, but did you enjoy the simpler times?"

Harry shook his head fervently. "Not in the least," he replied immediately. "I grew up without magic. I'd never go back to that."

"I used to go into my Papa's study when I was little and read his Charms books," Fleur said, her eyes holding nostalgia. "I never understood much, Papa was a Charms tutor before he worked in the ministry, but the magic in those books was amazing. I'd love to see those things for the first time once again."

Fleur brought her delicate fingers to Harry's cheek, their skin lightly brushing together.

"I remember the first time I saw Transfiguration," Harry said, his mind cast back. "Dumbledore was the person that brought me into the magical world, and when he came to my relative's house, he turned the fire into water and made it dance around the room. After that, I could never go back."

"I still do not understand how one as _magical_ as you could live eleven years without magic," Fleur queried, and Harry grinned. "It would be like a bird living without wings."

"It wasn't great," Harry admitted. "But, I found magic in other things."

"Like what?" Fleur asked.

"I, erm, I drew," Harry said, quietly. "It was my thing."

"Show me." Fleur said, her hand curling into Harry's hair.

"What do you mean?"

"Draw me something," Fleur said. "If you'd like to."

Harry paused for a moment, before nodding. He sat, taking the pencil that he always had in his jacket pocket, and took the parchment that was lying upon Fleur's desk.

"What do you want me to draw?" Harry asked, spinning the pencil between his fingers.

"Whatever you like." Fleur said, a beautiful smile on her face.

"Okay then," Harry said. "Hold still."

That was how they spent the evening. Fleur, her beauty captured within his hands, though the art that he created could not touch the one that stood before him. He could spend hours agonising over the delicate lines of her cheekbones, the radiance of her smile and the way that her hair cascaded like the clearest waterfall that anyone had ever hoped to see.

Fleur sat, content to watch Harry work, a small smile on her face as she watched his brow furrow in concentration or the moments that he sat still, his mind working at a mile a minute. And the times that he ran a hand through his hair, his hair adorably messy, and she could not help but press soft kisses to his smiling mouth.

And, as Harry made the walk back to his room in the middle of the night, his eyes half-lidded and a fond warmth to his chest, he could barely remember the irritation of the day before.

* * *

As Harry woke up the following morning, Dumbledore's notebook in his hands, the pale winter sun broke through the blinds of his window and for the first time in a month or so, he smiled as he got up.

However, such a smile was to be short lived, as the knock of door mirrored the sun's gentle greeting, though its greeting was anything but gentle.

The knocking upon his door was harsh, and Harry rushed to the edge of his bed, opening the door with a wave of his wand. His hair stuck up from all angles from sleep and he still wore what he had worn the prior day, too exhausted to get into his pajamas the night before.

Unfortunately, the face behind the door was one of the last he'd ever wanted to see.

Neville stood in-between his door frame, his hands behind his back, an apologetic look upon his face. Harry offered a scowl in return.

"Is there a reason you're here?" Harry asked, his voice caustic.

"Yes, I wanted to say I'm sorry." Neville said, rocking on his heels.

"Wonderful," Harry said. "Well, you have. You can leave now."

Neville took a step into the room. "Harry, I didn't know that the cloak was your Dad's," he said. "I would swear that on anything. Sirius just gave it to me, and told me that it saved him when he was younger, and it would come in handy for me too. I never knew."

"And you never questioned it?" Harry asked.

A rueful chuckle fell from Neville's mouth. "No Harry, I didn't," he said. "Mostly I was just glad that I didn't have to deal with the Dementors any more."

"So…" Harry said.

" _So_ ," Neville said. "I just wanted to tell you that I know what happened was wrong and if I'd known anything about it, I'd never have allowed it to go on. And, to show that I mean it, I'd like for you to have this."

Neville pulled both of his hands from behind his back and revealed a piece of material unlike any other. It flowed like water in his hands, rippling currents of silver forming within the silk-like material. Harry knew that, upon the other side, there was _nothing_.

"I thought I should return it to its rightful owner." Neville said, handing it over to Harry, who took it into his own without question.

A surge of _something_ passed through Harry then. A power, perhaps, that felt familiar. It was similar to the utter warmth that filled him when he first gripped on to the Elder Wand. A certain _rightness_ as the cloak passed into his hands.

"Thank you, Neville." Harry said.

"I'm only correcting a wrong," Neville said. "I'm going to stop talking to Sirius for a while too. I think he needs some time to right himself before anything else."

Harry nodded. "I just don't think he and I were ever going to connect," he said. "I know he means a fair deal to you. You and him have what I wanted to have with him, and I think he might need someone to point him in the right direction, and I reckon you're as good as anyone."

"If you're sure?" Neville asked, and Harry nodded. "I don't want to hurt you anymore with this."

"He's yours," Harry said. He pulled the cloak over his arm, and watched the skin appeared and disappeared at will. "Just - if he ever holds anything of my family's from me again, tell me. I think I deserve to know."

"I will, I promise," Neville said, his head dipping slightly in respect. "Anyway, I think I'll leave you be. It's early, and I wanted to do this because it'd been on mind ever since I found out."

"Cheers Neville." Harry said, and Neville nodded once to him, before leaving Harry's room, the door closing behind him.

Harry felt the silken cloak between his fingers, an odd feeling of relief filling him. It felt as though he had a part of himself _missing_ and it had finally returned to him, the wholeness to his spirit that he had never had before, and the connection to his Dad had never been stronger.

As gazed down on the cloak, his mind began to race. The fog of aimlessness he'd felt over the tournament cleared, like the sun burning through the winter mist, and an idea began to take root within his thoughts.

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **I hope you enjoyed it - let me know you thought. Reviews are always appreciated.**

 **Until next time!**


	25. Chapter 25

**Hi all!**

 **Sorry for the delay in this chapter - I've been really ill for the past week or so, and I haven't been able to write.**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's a long one and I enjoyed writing it.**

 **As always, reviews are always appreciated and I really enjoy every one of them. If you have a question, feel free to PM me and I will respond. However, questions like 'When will you update?' are somewhat difficult, as are one's that would spoil your enjoyment in the future, so I can't really respond to those.**

 **Anyway, here it is!**

 **Thanks!**

* * *

Despite Spring having arrived, Scotland had failed to be made aware of it.

There was a crisp air about the grounds of Hogwarts, the sheet of ice atop the Black Lake was broken but the trees around the lawns were still adorned with flakes of snow. February had arrived, though its arrival did not offer the break in the cold like it often did.

The second task was only a number of days away and the tension brought that it brought with it was evident in each of its competitors. Viktor swam within the Black Lake every day, often twice, a gaggle of fans his shadow as he did so. Cedric could be found at almost all hours within one of the Hogwarts classrooms, furiously repeating spells until they melted into his muscles and he became one with the magic they contained. Fleur, for her part, told Harry of the hours she and her Headmistress would spend pouring over reams of text, looking for the solution to their problems.

Fleur and Harry's time was, as a consequence, cut short, which grated upon him, though he could not help but understand. Her affinity for fire was not simply a talent, but rather a innate disposition toward the destructive element and, as such, the water of the Black Lake was a massive hindrance. He cared for her, and he wanted to see her succeed and with such a disadvantage, the work she performed was _necessary_.

Harry though trusted his magic, the Helian Magics and the plan he had formed. At a certain point, to train so much would earn not any gain, but rather would earn the erasure of one's instinctive reactions, and that was not what Harry wanted.

Eikthyrnir ran ahead of him through the lawns, loping through the cold without a care in the world. Fleur walked at his side, her hip pressed against his, her hands holding his bicep. Fleur had managed to get away from her work for a brief moment and Harry was thrilled to spend their limited time together. They walked around the lake, mostly to watch the erection of the stands for the second task and to see if there was anything else added amongst the constructions, though it was pleasant, as it was done _together_.

"When I was younger, I told my Papa that I never wished for him to go to Britain," Fleur said, as they walked passed the path to the Castle and into the gravel path that surrounded the lake. "He would come here on Ministry visits and he would always return tired and saddened and I would blame Britain for it."

Harry leaned into her slightly. "Our Ministry does have that effect," he said, the quirkings of a half-smile reaching her lips. "We could always tell when Dumbledore came back from talking with Minister Fudge. He'd go to his office for a few days and disappear from the world and he barely slept - he'd just go through all of the work that the Minister should've done and corrected it all, or take away anything that was overtly prejudiced."

"Are you and the Headmaster close, 'Arry?" Fleur asked, her voice quiet.

"Fairly," Harry said, with a shrug. "He's always helped me, especially when I first came into our world. He understood what I was feeling when a lot of the others didn't. I suppose he always respected me, and it's almost _impossible_ not to respect him."

"I think it is more than that, 'Arry," Fleur said. "It is the way you talk of him. As though you understand him. Many pretend to understand him, but you do."

"He's a friend," Harry said, nonchalant. "I've never really had many of those. He was always kind to me. He's just a man, not some God like they say he is, but he always tried to make things better, and with me he succeeded, I think. He told me about my parents, he introduced me to magic, he bought me Transfiguration books when I couldn't afford them, he showed me forgotten parts of the castle when I needed a place to just be quiet. He's nothing like what people say about him. He's not a bastion of virtue, or a wolf in sheep's clothing, or some Machiavellian megalomaniac. He's just a man."

Fleur kissed Harry's cheek. "Not many get to call a man like that a friend."

"He is not himself a 'man like that'," Harry said, his lips quirking up. "He's brilliant, perhaps the most brilliant, but he's very normal. I think that's where everything goes wrong - when we make people more than just men. Dumbledore is great, but he's just a person. He deserves no more or less consideration than any other. The moment we make someone a monument to something _greater_ , we sacrifice their accountability."

"But don't you think he's worthy of greater consideration, with the deeds he's done?" Fleur asked. "He defeated Grindelwald, held back Voldemort, defeated about a thousand rising dark wizards in Europe, rewrote about a thousand archaic laws from the Wizengamot. That's not what ordinary men do."

Harry nodded. "But if we just allow him to do all of our thinking for us, where is the logic in that?" he asked. "Dumbledore himself said as much. It's part of why he walked away from most of his political power. We are all capable of more than we do, but if we allow others to do it for us, we never will."

Fleur gave Harry a rare smile then. It was one he'd not seen on her face before. She often smiled - she said people thought if she was smiling, she wasn't thinking, and that disarmed her. But this smile seemed to only be for him, as though the fondness in her eyes and small dimples that formed in her cheeks were there for only him to see. The effort was an effort only for him.

The thought was a happy one.

It occurred to Harry then that really wasn't anyone else he'd _wish_ to spend time with. There was no-one else he wanted to talk to, and hear their opinion, and think with.

"I doubt I will ever understand any of that man," Fleur said, and Harry smiled fondly, too. "I hardly understand the task that he has set."

"How do you feel about the task?" Harry asked, his words careful. It was a delicate line to tread, that being the topic of the Triwizard Tournament.

"Anxious, I suppose," Fleur answered. "The tournament is nothing like I imagined. Far less glory, I think."

"It feels like a massive lie," Harry agreed. "As though this event where children die has an honour to it."

"I realise now that it does not matter what I do. I will not gain the respect that I want, no matter how I perform," Fleur said, her eyes downcast. "People will simply remember the injustice of it all and the tasks we face and the injuries we receive. No-one will care to remember we who faced the task, faced the dragons and received the injuries."

Harry wrapped his arm around her waist. "You're far too brilliant to be forgotten like that," he said, earnesty in his voice. "This tournament is a horrific ordeal that we all face together, but we are bigger than it. We are greater than the horrible things we're facing. We're more than the experiences we face, I think."

Fleur smiled. "Thank you, 'Arry," she said, and nodded toward her carriage, as if to show that she wished for their adjourn to the cold outside to end, and for the two of them to return to the warm embrace of their room. He met Eikthyrnir's eyes briefly, the deer running off to entertain itself afterward. "How is it that you're so calm about this? You are the only one that deserves such anxiety. You did not even wish to be involved."

Harry agreed to her suggestion, leading the pair of them to her carriage. "I don't really know," he admitted, as he opened Fleur's door. "I suppose when I _have_ to face something, I don't feel like there's much need to worry. It will happen, so I can't control it. Better to worry over things I can change, even if, for me, it's stupid things like being in public with loads of people."

Fleur stopped the two of them in the middle of the room, taking off her scarf, an placed her glove-warmed-hands at the base of his neck, gently caressing the strands of his hair. "'Arry, it is not stupid," she said. "What you feel is not stupid. You are allowed to feel anxious and to have things that worry you, and to be scared sometimes. You are not some lesser because of it."

Harry looked down in the small space between the two of them, avoiding her eyes. "I just wish I didn't," he said, with a self-deprecating smile. "I hate feeling the way I do in public. I want to be comfortable with others. I don't want to feel lost every time I'm in the Great Hall. I want to just be normal."

Fleur lifted his chin, so that their eyes met, and hers were filled with warm kindness - her expression made Harry think of a summer evening. "'Arry, I do not want you to be normal at all. You are so much greater than normal in every aspect that it would be an insult to you to just be normal," she said. "I want you to be you. There are parts of you that may hurt, but without those, there would not be the magical aspects that I so greatly admire."

Harry gave her an unconvincing half-smile.

Fleur cupped his cheek with her hand, her thumb caressing at the point of his cheekbone. "Are you comfortable with me?"

Harry smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her bottom lip. "Absolutely." he said, his words unable to capture how oddly true that was.

Fleur grinned, hearing the honesty of his words. She pressed her lips to his cheek, then to his jaw, then to his neck. "Then that is all that matters, isn't it?" she asked, rhetorically. "You do not have to be comfortable with everyone, and honestly, no-one is. You simply have to be comfortable with those you are close with. Those that care for you."

Harry nodded, mostly to himself. Her words felt as clear as the water that saved Eikthyrnir. He sat on Fleur's bed, and she joined him, her long legs laid across his lap, the pair of them enjoying sharing one-another's space.

"I detest being in public too," Fleur said quietly. "Perhaps not in the same manner as you, but each time I have to face a crowd, worry does pool in my stomach. All of those eyes on you. It is not comfortable, especially given that I never know how one of them is going to act. There have been men that attack me, unable to comprehend how they feel, or how to act. It is not fun."

Harry pulled her close, her head placed against his chest. "Then you are far braver than me." he said.

Fleur smiled against his chest. "I do not know about that," she said. "If I could, I'd live in my family's chateau with my family and never leave, but Gabrielle loves to see the sights and to see people and to see the world. I could never prevent her from doing so."

Harry pressed a kiss to her hair. "Well, we don't have to go anywhere for a while now," he said, leaning back into the bed, holding Fleur so that they cuddled, their legs entangled in her duvet. "Let's just stay here. In the warmth."

Fleur smiled, nodding, her cheeks dimpling as she leaned up to kiss Harry, her lips tugging at his, before she settled into the warmth of his body, and he into hers.

There was the second task on the horizon, but for that moment, they did not care, as other things felt far more important than the fool's errand of the Triwizard Tournament. Outside, the wind whistled against her carriage, but Harry and Fleur were none-the-wiser.

* * *

Harry Potter began February 24th with a peace to his mind that was absent in the prior trial.

Even to his own mind, he felt an oddly, fully present, calm, as though the water that he was inhabit had taken root in his soul, and he was just a current upon the shore. Eikthyrnir sat at his feet, the warmth of his body pervading into Harry's skin. In the moments of his waking, he could _feel_ the connection they shared and the subsequent connection Harry shared to his element more closely than ever before.

In the days led up to the tournament, Harry tried beyond anything to rid his mind of the minor, mortal worries that had once captured his attention. Sirius, Tonks, Neville, the Malfoys. They were all dust to the wind; a wind that he could no longer feel. Instead, he devoted his being to simply understanding himself. To understanding his magic.

For the first task, despite the hindrance of his coma, the time unconscious allowed for a long period of introspection and self-reflection. In those moments, there was only himself, his magic and his thoughts for company. When there was little else but one's own self, you learn a great deal about _you_. Such self-awareness was what he had long sought for then.

However, there was a feeling of preparedness that filled him then. Before, he felt blind, as though he was picked from the world and then dropped elsewhere without warning. Now, he knew where he was being dropped, what he must do there and how he was going to do it.

Madam Maxine had herded Fleur away from the outside world for the past four or so days and so Harry, without any reason to leave his room, had not seen much of the outside world. He did not know how everyone felt about the task, or indeed who they thought would do well. There was no repeat visit from Malfoy and his cronies, either. It was quite freeing, for Harry, to be alienated from the world. The thoughts of others would only serve him ill.

However, now was the day of reckoning. This was the day that would show all of the work he'd done. Everything was decided today. He would either earn the respect of the judges and the world at large, or he would be exactly who they said he was.

He was not nervous about this, in truth. There was an obstacle to be overcome. He had the tools to do it, and he had one hour to do it in. Beyond that, nothing else mattered.

There was focus in his every action as Harry woke up. He showered, he clothed himself and he thought over his magic with a delicate patience. He did not wish to leave anything to chance.

The task was to be in the morning, the short time between waking and performing the task preferable to the extended waiting that the first task involved. And so, just as Harry magically stuck a tag to the Invisibility Cloak, he was out of the door, walking to the dock of the Black Lake.

With the early start, mist covered the Hogwarts lawns, thought it was a thin fog that allowed the eye to see a great distance, even Harry's bespectacled ones. Dew covered the grass beneath his shoes, though it was quickly evaporating under the winter sun. There was hardly another living soul about as it was so early, with many treating this Friday as an extended weekend, lessons having been cancelled for the day.

As he reached the docks, the place in which he and Fleur had noticed the stands beginning to be built, he found that he was the first there. He worried, for the briefest of moments, that he and Fleur were wrong in their preparation, though it was short-lived as Dumbledore appeared over the brow of one of the hills of Hogwarts, a cheerful smile on his face that appeared in direct contrast to how Harry was feeling.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore greeted, an upward tilt in his voice. "I was not expecting anyone else this early. The champions are not due for another half-hour."

"Better to be early, I think." Harry said, an energy to his voice that carried on throughout his person. He could not keep still, so ready was Harry. He seemed over-filled with energy, like a pan fit to boil.

"I quite agree," Dumbledore agreed. "In the early years of my position in Wizengamot, they would often bring forward the times of our meetings an hour or so. By the end of my second year, I would get there five hours early, even before they did, just to _ensure_ I never would miss a meeting."

Harry smiled. "What did they do then?"

"Well, after that, the then-Supreme Mugwump would purposely send me a letter with the incorrect date, then send the correct date to the other members, with my name mysteriously absent from the second circulation," Dumbledore explained. "If I was not friends with the young man that worked within the mailing office, it may have worked."

Harry laughed.

"In any case, I'm afraid I must perform my duties," Dumbledore said, turning to walk toward the approaching Barty Crouch. "Good luck, Harry. I have the utmost faith you will perform admirably."

Harry nodded in thanks, and the Headmaster left the docks and entered into a conversation with the Ministry worker. Harry's attention, however, was elsewhere, as it was then that Fleur arrived, wearing a coat to fight the cold. And little else.

A shiver ran through Harry then and the weather had nothing to do with it. Fleur's long legs appeared, her pale skin shining in the morning sun. She was like an oasis in the desert to Harry's eyes, so beautiful was she.

"Morning, 'Arry," Fleur said, moving over to hug him, which he returned warmly. "I fear I am not as adept at charms as I thought," Fleur shivered against him. "My warming charm feels useless."

"You get used to it," Harry said, his arms rubbing at her sides. "By the time you go back to France, you'll think it's too hot and you'll want to come back to the cold with me."

Fleur frowned at him and Harry swallowed a grin at her offence. "That is impossible," she said. "Apart from anything else, there is no such thing as 'too' warm. Oh Merlin, how I long for a French summer now."

"I can't wait to see your face when you get into _that_ water," Harry said, nodding toward the Black Lake. "We might need to get that dragon back to warm you up."

"I can think of other ways." Fleur near- _purred_ into Harry's ear. Harry shivered once again - and, once again, the weather was not its cause.

Any other pleasant thoughts were squashed before they could form by the arrival of Viktor and Cedric, the pair walking side by side as they did. One or two eager fans of the Quidditch star were at his coattails, though it seemed that such a cold, early morning was the limit of their fandom, and so very few joined him. It was odd to see Viktor without Hermione by his side, the pair almost attached at the hip in recent times.

Harry struggled to suppress the frown that formed at his face at the sight of Cedric, however. The Hufflepuff hadn't made any action to resolve the tension between the two of them outside of the token effort he displayed immediately after the first task. It angered Harry somewhat, though by now, the irritation had faded and he was barely a blip on Harry's radar, with other things offering a far greater nuisance as of late.

"Morning." Viktor said, curtly,his tone far less dour than when Harry first met him, though that could've easily been due the Bulgarian's joy at being in such familiar weather.

Harry nodded back to him. Fleur followed suit, though the motion was more of a shiver than anything else.

"Good morning." Cedric said, chipper, annoyingly so, to Harry's ears. He himself shivered in the cold, though it was not extreme reaction that Fleur showed. For a moment, Harry worried that Fleur might forfeit due to it.

The four of them stood in a huddle, saving one-another from the harsh, Scottish weather. No-one spoke beyond the small pleasantries, each lacking the desire to talk as the task was on the immediate horizon, a general feeling of displeasure filling them on that morning.

Quite unconsciously, Harry found himself slowly inching toward Fleur, as if by instinct. Fleur mirrored his action, the pair of them moving closer and closer with each shiver of their freezing bodies until their sides grazed as they drew breath, the tips of their fingers touching.

Slowly, the stands that surrounded the lake began to fill. A great majority of the best seats were filled with Viktor's adoring fans, as they were the first to arrive. Soon after that, Hufflepuff house seemed to arrive as one singular group, carrying banners that displayed their house pride.

After that, the rest of the students began to flock in. Beauxbatons did not seem as enamored with their champion as the other schools, though that fact did not seem to bother Fleur in the least. She seemed more occupied with staying alive in the task. Harry felt almost no support, though as Neville took his seat, they shared a nod.

Headmaster Karkaroff appeared like a ghost to whisk Viktor away from his adoring public and to strategise, though Viktor bordered on antipathetic to that idea. Madam Maxine appeared similarly, though far more conspicuously, and Fleur left with her, pausing to squeeze at Harry's fingers as she did.

Harry, as a result, was left alone with Cedric, a fate he'd dearly wished to have avoided. Cedric seemed to shift as he stood, as if wishing to talk, but stopping himself before doing so. There was discomfort in Cedric's eyes as they looked at one-another. It made Harry anxious, and he walked away, moving to the edge of the dock that they stood upon, looking deep within the Black Lake's murky depths.

Just as the other's placed the final touches to their plans, Harry began his. He dipped a hand into the Black Lake, allowing the near-freezing water to flow through his fingers, closing his eyes as he did so. He closed his eyes and _searched_.

This was the key to everything.

Just as he had once searched within that crystal clear stream to save Eikthyrnir, he searched within the Black Lake. There was a profound difference between the waters. Within the lake, he could feel the resistance to life of the cold that had dug its hold deep into the body of water. The cold that sank deep within the bones of all that felt it. It was more than temperature - it changed the world around it, until the world would rather die than fight the cold.

Harry, however, would not die.

Harry _pushed_ through the cold, into the very essence of the body of water. Within the water, there was life. There was energy. There was a current that, under his kindness, would help Harry live and thrive, and that was what he would do.

Harry only reached the periphery of the water's essence before a klaxon sounded, drawing his focus far away from the peace of the water, back to the anxious energy of the world around him. Before, the forming crowd had no affect on him, so focused was Harry, but as the seconds ticked toward the start of the task, the pricklings of nerves formed at the edges of Harry's heart. It was easy to ignore them, though.

He had worked too hard not to.

"Attention to all those here!" Dumbledore's voice began, the great noise of it booming through the Hogwarts' grounds. It seemed to rattle the stands with its force, the wood that supported them wobbling, though that was likely the winds that had began to pick up. Harry returned to the line that marked where the race would begin, standing beside Fleur and the other two. "Today is the day of the second task of the Triwizard Tournament!"

Cheers met his statement, and the other three took that moment to dispose of their outerwear, leaving themselves in only their swimming costumes. If Harry were not preoccupied, he would've enjoyed such a sight.

Harry could feel the eyes of the others as he did not join them and take off his coat, instead choosing to remain warm. He ignored their eyes.

"Today, our champions will be tasked with traversing the depths of Hogwarts' Black Lake, in order to retrieve something that was taken from them last night!" Dumbledore said, to which Viktor and Cedric made noises of realisation. Harry found it odd that it took them that long to realise the cause of the absence. "They must go into the water and come back with what missing, avoiding all those that live within the water, all within an hour!"

A ministry worker that Harry dimly recognised as being one of the Weasley brothers rushed over to the four of them.

"Do you four understand what it is you are going to do?" Weasley asked. "And that, as you are champions, what you do is your choice, and zero blame is placed upon the Ministry?" Harry and the other champions nodded, so Weasley scuttled away just as quickly as he'd arrived.

"At the sound of the klaxon, the champions will begin their task!" Dumbledore finished, before leading the assembled crowd in a countdown. "THREE! TWO! ONE!"

At once, the klaxon sounded and the other three jumped into the freezing water, though Fleur and Cedric applied their Bubble-Head charms before they did so. And, as soon as he met the water, Viktor perfectly transfigured his head into that of a hammerhead shark and descended into the water below.

Harry, however, stayed upon the platform, preferring to dip only a hand into the water, as he had done once before.

At once, he returned in his search. He poured through the water, forcing through its harsh, cold exterior and to the bountiful life beneath. Within this water, he could feel each and every soul that inhabited the depths. Each fish, each grindylow, each mermaid was connected to Harry in the moment he touched the water. In that moment, he felt at one with the water and, in turn, at one with the nature of the world.

Just as, for a moment, he became little more than a conduit in order to heal Eikthyrnir, it was then that he became simply another body of water. Another soul, holding the lapping, ever moving yet never changing essence that was _water_.

Then - then, he began to _search_. Through the serene essence of the water, he pondered. He searched the heart and soul of the others that the lake held. He connected with every mermaid and every fish. But they were not his target.

As he searched the water, he could not recognise people by any other sensation than the connection he created. He could not see them, or hear their voice or even feel their magic brushing against his. All he could feel was their _connection_. As the one he looked for was the one he would miss most, he searched simply for the greatest connection.

Through this, he bonded with the water, just as he did when he healed Eikthyrnir. The Black Lake was a creation unto itself. It was strong, it was healthy. But, above all, just like the castle it bordered, it was _supportive_.

And so, it did not take long, under its gentle coaxing, for Harry to find the being that he searched for.

There she was.

It was a person that he simply could _not_ ignore. She had meant too much to him. She was too singular. Too unique.

Too _Tonks_.

He flinched, almost imperceptibly, as he felt her soul at the other end of the water. They had been apart for a long while and it was a shock to connect with her once more.

But he had a task at hand. A task he simply needed to complete. And so, with a moment to steady himself, he _pulled_ at their connection.

He could feel her spirit at the other end _pull_ , as if to mirror his efforts. He could not move her through the water in such a manner, as there were magics to prevent any summoning, but as they pulled over their connection toward one-another, a deeper connection was born through the water they both inhabited. A bond _born_ of the Northern Magics. And so, Harry would not forget where she was within the lake.

Harry took a step back, taking his hand away from the lake, feeling his hand burn as it was removed from its cold water. He could feel the eyes of the crowd look upon him in confusion as he acted, unversed in the Northern Magics as they were. They were silent in anticipation, though multiple scoffs of derision managed to slice through the quiet.

Harry closed his eyes once more. _This_ was what he had worked upon. This was what would decide his fate.

He closed his eyes, and focused only on the water that was before him, the location of Tonks within it and his own _magic_.

He thought on water. The flow of its energy. The difficulty with which it is moved. The _life_ it carries, and the beings its sustains. The _soul_ of the lake. The _power_ of the lake.

Harry opened his eyes, and grasped the Elder Wand in his hand. He felt the elder berries on its length.

He pointed his wand at the water, and drew breath.

" _Logr Aegir._ "

Nothing happened within the physical world then, but within Harry's spirit, a _storm_ was tearing him apart.

Within his chest, he felt as though he was being drowned. Each breath was agony, his heart like pumping like a whirlwind. Sweat poured from Harry, his arms feeling as though they were seconds from snapping. His vision blackened at the edges and his mind was close to simply bending to these ancient, primal forces.

Spirits and forces of water fought and wrestled with Harry. Beings that simply _did not_ change lashed out at Harry, fighting against Harry's will. For millennia, they had stayed as they were. They were staunch in their opposition.

But Harry said no. You _will_ change.

And so they did.

A gap appeared in the water, like a hole in a cave, freedom in its thin vein. With staggering steps and wracking breaths, Harry _forced_ that vein into dilating. What was once a crevice, became a hole, then a _well_.

But Harry was not finished. His spine felt like it was to become permanently concave. But he did not bend to the forces that he fought against.

He pushed at that water. He pushed harder than he had ever pushed before, but the water pushed back just as hard. Harry thought that his body would snap at the force he funneled through it, for his spirit would never break, but his body may.

But it didn't.

And, as he heaved a deep breath, allowing his body the reprieve it deserved, he looked into the water and his eyes were greeted with the sight he wished for.

Because, deep into the water, a pipeline had formed from his power. One singular pipeline, from the edge of the water to the floor of the lake, allowing light to shine into the bed of the lake below. Water had been forced to the sides of this pipe unnaturally - indeed, Harry's magic was the only force preventing the lake from returning to its natural order. Harry took one finger and felt the edge of this pipe, touching the water that had been forced into place. The pressure there was _magnificent_ , as though it was not water at all, but _stone_.

"Oh my word!" Called the voice of Lee Thomas, Bagman's replacement. "Harry Potter has done it again! He's managed to part the water of the Black Lake! He could get what he would sorely miss without even having to get wet!"

And, at the bottom of the lake bed, Tonks was tied upon a post, Mermish ropes holding her in place, against her will. She seemed to be sleeping, her head lolling to one side, as if she were a rag-doll. It gave Harry pause.

Silently, Harry summoned the tag that he'd stuck to his cloak. He knew that there were likely Merfolk to guard those that were tied up. But, if they could not see him, no blood would need to be shed.

The cloak flew through the air, though only the tag he'd attached could be seen, floating like a leaf in the wind. His hand met the silken material of the cloak, which he immediately wrapped around himself, becoming invisible.

" _Arresto Momentum._ " Harry whispered, diving into the Black Lake. And, unlike the other champions, as he did so, he remained bone dry.

Slowly, Harry descended down the self-made pipeline, his velocity slow but his heart pounding. Victory was _just_ in his grasp.

His feet met the lake bed painfully, his control over the charm not perfect. As he did so, he looked around and he could see the Merfolk he expected, though they could not see him. They carried sharp spears speckled with the blood of their enemies. _That_ was not what Harry wanted.

Inside his chest, Harry's heart pounded at the sight of Tonks. In her faux-sleep, her hair was a mousy brown and she still wore her Auror robes. She appeared just as Harry remembered. So much so, that the entire ordeal felt like a dream. He did not know what to feel, or how to feel. He was in to much to pain _to_ feel. It did not feel real at all.

With Sirius' knife, he made quick work of the ropes that held Tonks in place, the rope falling harmlessly to the ground as he cut them. Tonks fell just as easily, though Harry reacted quickly, catching her before she reached the ground and draping one of her arms around his shoulder. She was soaking wet, as she was submerged, causing Harry to become soaked as he held her up.

After his efforts in forming the break in the water, Harry's bones screamed in pain. Each second that he held the water in place was a second in blinding pain. Each moment he was holding up Tonks was a moment of agony, but he knew that he would not win by being at the bottom of the lake.

And so, with shaking legs, Harry drew a deep breath and readied himself.

" _Depulso_." Harry said, his wand pointed to the ground. His voice was barely above silence, but the intent was there and so he and Tonks were sent flying through the pipeline and up into the world above.

The two of them flopped onto the dock and as his body met the wood, Harry allowed the water he had previously held at bay to return to its natural order. Where once there was an absence of water, immediately filled with the source of life once more.

All of Harry's efforts were lost, gone from the world, just as he wished. Nothing had changed, except in the brief moments that Harry stopped the unstoppable and changed the unchangeable.

Harry laid on the dock, his spine parallel with the wood beneath it. He closed his eyes and devoted every ounce of energy in his body into drawing air into his lungs, to alleviate the screaming pain in his chest. To resting from the blinding pain that gnawed away at his bones.

The outside world was lost to him, for a while. The sky could've turned green and the water red, but Harry would not know, so deep was his exhaustion.

But, just as the efforts they created, it did not take long before his lungs were able to breath without pain again. And, even as a surprise to himself, his bones no longer felt like trees almost felled.

Harry opened his eyes, blue sky greeting him as he did so. He sat up, his back hurting just slightly as he did, and looked at the world around him.

The crowds that were once sat down stood, shouting and their attention, rather uncomfortably, upon him. He did not know what was being said, but he heard a great screaming over the tannoy system. He looked around and he could not see any other champions, which meant that his plan was _very_ successful.

He looked to his side. And Tonks was there.

She was awake, though Harry did not know how. She was not looking at the world around them, or the crowds looking at them.

No, she was only looking at him.

Her colourful eyes met Harry's evergreen eyes. And the rest of the world melted away.

It felt like a million words passed through them. Apologies and anger and kindness and love and inside jokes and thoughts that they longed to say but couldn't.

In the end, though, neither of them said any of it.

Tonks said. "Hey." And, as she did so, the side of her face closest to Harry quirked up, in an apologetic smile.

And, in response, Harry said. "Hey." As he did so, the side of his face closest to Tonks quirked up, in an equally-apologetic smile.

Words hung in the breathes they took afterward. He wanted to apologise over how he acted. She wanted to tell him how horrible life had been without him. But neither did.

And, as it was, neither needed to.

Because, just as they looked at one-another, their eyes could communicate more than their eyes ever could. Harry's beautiful eyes spoke more eloquently than his scratchy voice. Tonks' beautiful eyes told Harry of her pain, of _her_ , far more eloquently than her husky voice ever could.

"I'm sorry." Tonks said, her voice saying it, but her _eyes_ explaining the depths of her sorrow. Her eyes changed, filling in the spaces that her words never could. And, as they did, Harry felt peace.

"I'm sorry, too." Harry said, his eyes blinking apology, more erudite and honest than the words he could say.

Tonks reached over, and Harry met her in the middle. Their hands squeezed together for the briefest of moments, before breaking apart.

Nothing would be the same, or even similar. But the wound had began to heal, rather than grow, as it had been doing before then.

The rest of the world returned then. The deafening roar of the crowd crashed into his ears.

"...That must place Potter in first place!" Lee Thomas finished, the reality of the situation returning. The pain that coursed through his body was dulled by the adrenaline that chased it away. He had not broken any bones in his efforts, a lucky result, he thought, given he had once felt like he was trapped in a vice.

He looked up to the judges' box and met Dumbledore's eyes, just as he had done in the first task. They shared a smile, Dumbledore unable to keep the pride from his eyes.

Soon after that, a hammerhead shark's nose broke the water, followed by a Bulgarian's body carrying a bookworm's sleeping frame. Viktor dispelled his Transfiguration, his jaw becoming humanoid once more, just as Hermione returned from the realm of Morpheus. She immediately pressed her head into the crook of Viktor's neck, her body shaking in fear as an unfamiliar world appeared around her. Viktor whispered into her ear, providing clarity to her confusion.

Chasing closely at his heels was Cedric, in his arms his Yule Ball date. He pierced the water holding the girl as if it was their wedding day, appearing every inch the storybook hero. Harry understood then exactly why he would be chosen.

Roars of cheers that made Harry's celebration sound near-silent greeted the pairs' arrival, though the two of them were more occupied with the girls that they saved. Cedric's date was almost catatonic from her terrifying ordeal - it seemed like Cedric had his own little task to calm her.

Tonks was sedate beside him. She was almost bored with the event, having began to talk with Professor Moody, who appeared silently at her side. To Harry's ears, it sounded as though Moody was critiquing her for being taken as a prisoner so easily, for an Auror.

Harry's attention, however, was diverted by the absence of Fleur. She was the _only_ champion not there and, by the commotion, she really ought to have been. The beginnings of worry took root inside Harry's stomach.

Fleur was of Veela heritage, so her aversion to water was magically _innate_. This was against her element so absolutely that it was almost _unfair_ to expect her to be in the Black Lake for so long. She was warmth, where the water was cold and _thaw_.

Over the tannoy, the countdown for the hour's end began to sound. Fifteen minutes until the end.

Harry's worry began to build. What if her Bubble-Head charm burst? She would be down there, drowning, at the whims of the creatures of the water. Creatures that, by her nature, she clashed with.

The tannoy sounded. Ten minutes.

Harry's heart began to pound. What if she was hurt? What if she was just down there, bleeding, unable to protect herself and he did nothing? He simply waited for her to be okay?

It was not until there were five minutes to go, when Harry's heart felt fit to burst, that Fleur broke the water and appeared before his eyes. Relief flooded him, just as she climbed onto the wooden dock, exhausted but frantic.

"It was the Grindylow," Fleur said, her words falling over one another to get out of her mouth. "They swarmed me and I could not escape. I was trapped."

Harry pulled her up, moving her hair away from her face, before wordlessly conjuring a warm towel, which she took grateful. "It's okay," he said, applying a warming to charm to her body. "As long as you're safe."

Fleur wrapped herself in the warm cotton towel, and Harry wrapped his arms around her so that they shared his warmth. He did not care about the stares they received - he just wished for Fleur to be okay.

But she was not okay. Just as warmth began to return to her, she stopped dead, a faraway look filling her clear, blue eyes.

"What about Gabrielle?" She asked, quietly, to herself. "She is down there, helpless, and I could not save her? What's going to happen after the hour is up? The Merfolk are going to hurt her - I know they are!"

Harry looked into her eyes. He wanted to reassure her - to tell her that Dumbledore would never allow such a thing. But Dumbledore was just a man, and Merfolk did not care for the Veela. In fact, they hated them.

"You _have_ to help her, 'Arry!" Fleur insisted, holding onto the collar of his shirt for dear life. "Please help her!"

He looked into those terrified eyes. Beautiful, blue eyes, filled with a horrid fear - a fear that he never wished to see.

And, without a thought to the agony he would face, or a thought anywhere else for that matter, Harry pooled his focus, drawing breath into his aching body.

Locating Gabrielle was easy, as they both shared a connection with Fleur. What followed was torture.

Against every instinct of his failing body, Harry took a deep breath and pointed his wand toward the Black Lake.

" _Logr Aegir._ "

Harry spoke, and his body was contorted violently under the weight of his words. It was a familiar pain, but it was not made easier by familiarity. Far from it.

He could feel the tendons upon his arms torque and twist, threatening to snap away from his bone. One by one, the bones in his fingers twisted until they broke, though that did not stop him. No physical pain could stop Harry.

This was for Fleur.

Slowly, as if Harry was splitting an atom apart with his bare hands, the water opened. Just as it did before, the pipe dilated slowly. He knew that the pipe would not be as strong as it was before, but if he could just open it slightly, _just_ enough to allow his body to sneak through, it would be enough.

Harder and harder, he pushed the water apart, as to let the warm light of day break through the freezing cold water. The only thought that fueled Harry was that, below the murky depths, there was a girl that meant more to Fleur than life itself.

One of Harry's ribs broke apart from Harry's skeleton, pushing into his lungs and piercing them. The pain was nigh-unbearable, lancing through his chest as if he was stabbed. But Harry could not be stopped.

And so, just as the rest of his bones threatened to rattle free under the force he put them through, the water opened _just_ enough to allow Gabrielle to be seen. Harry stopped, his chest heaving a breath that was more pain than relief, more blood than air filling his lungs.

He knew he did not have long - he could not sustain the pipeline. Immediately, he jumped.

" _Arresto Momentum!_ " Harry shouted, as he fell down the pipe. As he landed, he felt his weakened legs snap under the reduced force of his fall. But he did not care. There was enough adrenaline in his body to revive a thousand people - and Fleur was the only thing on his mind.

As he reached the ground, he saw Gabrielle for the first time. She was like an _angel_ , with soft, fair hair and clear, _pale_ skin. She was like Fleur-turned-miniature, sharing the same cheeks, nose and forehead.

He could never allow her to be hurt. Never.

And so, with the utmost care, he picked her up, just as Cedric had to the Ravenclaw girl, and he pointed his wand to the ground. His magic could barely fight through the pain, but it did because it _had to_. As the edges of his vision blackened, he whispered. " _Depulso_."

As the pair of them raised through the air, he could feel the water close in behind them until, as they broke the surface of the water, the lake returned to its original state. As all of the competitors had now finished, with each of the 'trophies' rescued, it appeared like humanity had never been there at all.

Harry landed on the dock and he felt his other leg give out, be it to a broken bone or purely exhaustion, Harry did not know and the agony was to much to decipher. He fell to one knee, an already-broken leg the only thing maintaining him, but he did not _dare_ let anything hurt Gabrielle. She remained still in his arms.

He looked up, the first thing he could see was Fleur. Her beautiful, blue eyes brimming with tears, though now they were tears of relief. Tears of joy.

"She's _safe_." Harry whispered, his voice raw as blood pooled in his lungs. Gently, Fleur took her sister into her own arms, thanking him profusely as she did. Harry could not tell, though. His work was over.

He'd completed his task. It was over and he wasn't going to die, no matter how much he felt like he was. Fleur was safe and sound and, above all, everyone was going to be okay.

As that realisation hit Harry, so too did the agony that adrenaline had previously fought back and he could not sustain himself any longer. Under the force of burst lungs, broken bones and pure _fatigue_ , Harry collapsed under his own weight, falling noiselessly to the ground, unconscious.

And, as he fell into his own mind, there was only one thought that came to him.

 _We're all okay._

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed it - let me know what you thought.**

 **Until next time!**


	26. Chapter 26

**Hi all!  
**

 **I hope you enjoy this next chapter - I enjoyed writing it.**

 **As always, if you have any thoughts on the chapter, feel free to leave a review, or send me a PM if you have a question you'd like answered. I really appreciate them - they're the main reason that I write.**

 **Anyway, here it is.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _A sea of green fills his eyes._

 _Within this sea, phantom screams whistle through the rustlings of the waves, masses breaking through the surface only to shudder away from the cold light of dawn. This sea is darkness, yet he can see within it with a clarity both inhuman and utterly natural. He does not long to escape such a vile place; in fact, he feels at home here. As though, within the depths, there is a space for him - and not to fall between the waves, but to_ _ **rise**_ _._

 _Here, he feels, he could rise above the green that pervades the landscape. He, alone, would be a monument of monolithic solidarity amongst the chaos and turmoil of the waves. He would be buffeted by the sides, the sea churning as if to destroy him, but he would stay as he was. Unmoved, totally unweatherable and immortal to the forces of time._

 _He does not know_ _ **why**_ _he would wish to be such a thing. The thought of constant power is not one he longs to possess, yet he knows that such a power stands in his fingers and he needed only to close his fingers around it. Or, better yet, he did nothing, for the power is destined to be his._

 _He knew that, should he wish it, he could carve away at the sea with a wave of his arm and the chaos would be at his whims. He could throw away the green swirls and they would become of zero consequence. With the barest thrust of his bones, he could still what could not be stilled, for he himself was as natural and unchanging as the forces he controls. Such is his power. Such is his destiny._

 _Strength is his past, present and future. He needs only to take it._

* * *

Harry woke up, his mind flooded with thoughts of jade and malachite, though his body was numb to the touch. His eyes, blurry without his glasses, could not see a great deal, though he knew _exactly_ where he was, and he was not pleased to be there whatsoever.

Madam Pomfrey's magic coursed through him, no doubt stitching him back together and correcting the mistakes he'd made. The agony that he'd endured in the second task was fresh in his memory and he was rather glad that the matronly woman had stopped the pain.

Unlike prior encounters with the dreams, he did not feel ill in the aftermath. There was not the feeling of his core rotting away as there once had been. Indeed, this strange land that his mind was whisked away to did not feel as evil or as foreign any longer. There was distaste within him, to be sure, but more and more, the world became familiar and comfortable. Almost, though not quite, natural.

With a head that felt a stone heavier than usual, Harry looked around the room in an attempt to regain his bearings. The hospital wing was as it always was - he disliked its sickly cleanliness. To his left, his glasses and wand sat upon his invisibility cloak, which was folded on top of a chair.

To his right, Fleur sat, folded upon herself, gently dozing with her head in her hands.

She snored, softly, as she slumbered, her mouth barely opening as soft mewls escaped her lips. Harry smiled at the sound and the sight, though it was difficult, with his body as exhausted as it was then.

He wondered then, quite briefly, whether his efforts were truly worth it. He knew the consequences of acting as he did and that it was a full blown certainty that he'd end up in the position he was then. He could've asked the Headmaster whether or not Gabrielle would've been okay, though it would likely have been grounds for disqualification - interacting with a judge was, after all, illegal - and he did not wish for all his efforts to have been for naught.

Harry looked at Fleur then. It was obvious, really.

If the roles were reversed, she'd have done the same thing, a thousand times out of a thousand. She was the kind of person that did illogical things for the people that she cared for and it was only right to do the same.

His mind's eye then brought forth an image of Tonks, slumbering, appearing as he always imagined her. He wondered where she was - he didn't expect her to be at his beck and call, they no longer were 'that' person for one-another - but he wished her well. He hoped that she was okay. He didn't necessarily wish to talk to her, such things exercises in awkwardness more than anything else, but he hoped she was okay.

Madam Pomfrey rescued Harry from such thoughts, brushing into the room, opening the double doors that lead into the infirmary with a thoughtless shove of her arms. Her entire being was _loud_ , bustling through space without a thought of quiet.

Without thinking, Harry shushed her, conscious of Fleur's sleeping form and dearly wishing for her to remain that way. By the slant of her body and the depth of her slumber, Fleur looked like she needed as much sleep as she could get.

Pomfrey gave Harry a stern look, chastising him.

"So, Mr Potter, it seems you're once again in my infirmary," Pomfrey said, her voice far quieter. Harry was grateful for it. "You have no idea how close you came to permanent damage. Merlin knows how, because that magic you did in the tournament had no dark aspect, but it seems like whatever you did is powerful enough to act in a manner that is deeper than most magics."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, his voice floating through the air, as weak as it was.

"What I mean, Mr Potter, is that your magic is shaping you," Madam Pomfrey said. "I cannot tell you if it's negative, or damaging, or how deep the changes go, but with each use of this magic, you are changing yourself."

"What happened to me?" Harry asked, quickly.

"The list of bones that you've broken is a mile long and they're all healed, so worrying over them is more harm than good," Pomfrey told Harry. "You have an abnormal amount of residual magic within your body, especially your bones, heart and lungs. I do not know how or why, but it simply appears that with each use of these magics, more and more magic exists inside of your bones, perhaps making your being a more magical one."

"Will this affect how I cast spells?" Harry asked, curious.

"Not at all," Pomfrey said, immediately. "Your body does not 'store' magic to use, anyway. All that it means is that, your body is becoming, for want of a better expression, more magical. It is a natural process, though not one that has happened a great deal recently - the phenomenon was more common about five-hundred or more years ago. In those cases, wizards have had a more intuitive grasp of nature, though it is not a certainty."

"So, what happens?" Harry asked.

"There's not much to go on, and I didn't study historical phenomena as part of my mastery, so I'd have to research it if any massive changes occur," Pomfrey explained, an oddly abashed expression upon her face. "From what I recall, wizards of the past found that, the more they used the magic, the more in tune with magic they became. You may begin to sense magic more than you have before - that is usually a learned skill, though with you it may not be."

"So, I'm going to be okay?" Harry asked, his heart beating far slower than it was a moment before.

"You're going to be fine," Pomfrey said, her eyes soft. "As usual, with the damage you sustained, you will need to stay here for a few days in order to be safe, but provided you don't overexert yourself, you will be fine. Just make sure you don't have a repeat performance of what it was that you did - for your own sake."

Harry nodded, his neck feeling like lead, and Pomfrey left, her footsteps much more quiet then they had been when she had entered.

All that Madam Pomfrey had said was not new to Harry. The passive magic he'd performed before was supportive of her claims and it made sense that if he used magic more, he understood magic more. He knew that, after his adjourn to the peak and his brush with the elements of water and fire, he knew that he was changed by them. Eikthyrnir had changed him.

It was odd, however, to have physiological consequences to what Harry had thought to be spiritual, or supernatural, actions. It was not something he could control, though, so he was not going to curb his use of his most favourite magics simply because of an anomaly.

So, he put it to the back of his mind.

Just as he had thought of his deer companion, the doors to the infirmary where butted open by a pair of antlers, and the enormous buck appeared in front of him. And, not for the first time, Harry was struck by the intelligence, and instinct, of Eikthrynir.

Eikthyrnir ran over to Harry's bed and Harry embraced his friend, ignoring the pain and weakness of his arms as he did. He was just so relieved to see the buck once again. Harry suspected the feeling was mutual.

Harry hoped that Eikthrynir understood the gratitude that he held for the buck. Without Eikthyrnir, he would've been helpless. The knowledge of water and the pure _calm_ that the deer afforded Harry gave him more than he could even truly contemplate.

Without his familiar, he would've been lost, but with him, he had hope.

He and Eikthyrnir simply enjoyed the presence of one-another for a time. There was a comfort in one-another's company that they felt. As though things were simply _okay_ , as along as they were with each other.

But, before long though, Harry couldn't ignore the aching soreness of his body any longer. Eikthrynir understood, curling at the bottom of his bed, despite the great size of his body, and joined him in sleep.

However, before he returned to sleep, with great pain Harry leaned over to press a kiss to Fleur's temple. And, it could've been his imagination, but as he did so, Harry thought that he could a small smile on her face, even as she slept.

* * *

When Harry awoke for the second time, he could not believe what he was seeing. In fact, at first he thought he'd delved into some sort of hyper-realistic dream, odder than anything he'd ever seen before.

It took longer than he would wish to admit for his mind to catch up to his eyes, when he then realised that it was reality.

Eikthyrnir was really galloping around the room. And, on his back, Gabrielle was upon the deer, riding the incredibly powerful, magical animal like a horse. And, by all appearances, both of them looked to be thrilled at the occasion, with Eikthyrnir's face holding an oddly-human grin and Gabrielle's joyous giggle filling the ears of all that could hear.

Harry blinked away the sleep in his eyes, the action drawing the attention of Fleur, who still sat in the chair to his side.

A look of utter relief filled her face then, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes as she threw herself at Harry. She pressed soft, gentle kisses to the sides of his face, affection and kindness in her every motion. Harry smiled.

" _Merci, merci, merci_ ," Fleur intoned, as she attempted to overwhelm Harry with her affection. "You are such a wonderful man."

Harry, his body still fatigued, could do little else but smile. "It's okay." he said.

"No! It is not okay! It is so much more than okay," Fleur said, pulling back ever-so-slightly to hold Harry's face in her hands. There was utter _affection_ in her eyes as she did. As though Harry had offered her the world. "You did something that you did not need to do. Something that nearly killed you. And you did it for _me_."

Harry closed the distance, kissing Fleur and holding her full, bottom lip between his.

"You asked me to." Harry said, simply. For Harry, that was all that mattered.

Fleur sighed, reverent of the man in front of her. She held Harry close to her, as though she could not believe that he existed. As though she could not bare for him to be away from her, even for a moment.

"No-one has ever done something so selfless," Fleur said, as she held Harry as close to her body as she could. "You risked your health for me. I just cannot believe you."

"I know what Gabrielle means to you," Harry said, as he accepted Fleur's touch. "I could never let something to happen to her."

It was then that Eikthyrnir decided to, in jest, attempt to buck Gabrielle off, to which the girl let out a laugh that warmed the hearts of all those that could hear.

"I will never forget that, 'Arry," Fleur said, an easy smile on her face. There was a lightness within Fleur when she was with her sister. She reminded Harry of a gentle summer breeze. To her side, Gabrielle tapped Fleur upon her shoulder, shyly looking at Harry, before hiding behind her big sister. "I think my sister has something to say to you, too."

Harry smiled, a wash of second-hand embarrassment pouring through him as he watched Gabrielle hide behind her hands. However, she did pluck up her courage, standing next to his bed though she rocked upon her heels as she did so, not meeting his eyes.

"Zhank yoou zoo much forr vhat yoou deed." Gabrielle said, her cheeks redder than a summer apple, though Harry was utterly charmed by it. He could not hide the smile from his face.

Harry met her blue eyes. They were almost identical to those of Fleur's, though infinitely more innocent.

"De rien," Harry replied, with a brief glance to Fleur to check whether or not his French was correct. Gabrielle seemed to glow at his words, an utterly _carefree_ joy filling her. There was something wonderful about Gabrielle then - he understood why Fleur cared for her as she did.

Soon after, her attention returned to Eikthrynir. Harry and Fleur watched the pair of them as they played. Harry enjoyed it - it was odd for his oft-composed friend to be so carefree for a time. After a time, Eikthyrnir carried Gabrielle out of the room, taking her on a tour of the castle.

"How did I do?" Harry asked, to Fleur, after the others had gone from the room. She took one of his hands into hers.

"With Gabrielle?" Fleur asked. Harry nodded. "I fear she may care for you more than me - it is not every day a boy risks life and limb to save you from evil sea creatures, after all. Your French may need work, though."

"I'd love to," Harry said. "Your French lessons are the best kind of lessons."

"Because I am in my underwear?" Fleur asked, her voice a _purr_ into Harry's ear.

"Oui," Harry said. Fleur laughed. "It helps."

"Well, I think you might deserve some _advanced_ French lessons," Fleur said, her breath upon Harry's ear, a shiver running up his spine. "For being such a good man."

Harry, feeling far more energised, was on the fringe of pressing Fleur for further detail on such 'advanced lessons' when the door swung open and Dumbledore came in, wearing what appeared to be a set of Victorian curtains as a robe.

"Harry, I'm glad to see that you're awake," Dumbledore said, smiling down at Harry, before turning to Fleur. "And Miss Delacour, I'm happy to see such care and co-operation between the champions."

Harry fought the urge to frown at his Headmaster, though Fleur smiled beautifully.

"He did an incredible thing for my family," Fleur replied to the Headmaster, her tone even and respectful. "To keep him company is the least I could do."

"Nonetheless, I'm pleased to see it," Dumbledore said, before his visage turned serious. "Now, on to the reason that I'm unfortunately interrupting the bonding of two champions. Your performance in the second task."

"Was I disqualified?" Harry asked, resigned.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, not at all my boy," he said, with a polite chuckle. "In fact, the other judges and myself were most impressed with the care that you demonstrated toward Miss Delacour in the task. So much so that you were awarded forty-three points, meaning that you had the best showing within the second task, and are in second place overall, behind Viktor Krum."

Harry smiled, happy to finally have been given respect from the judges after the first task. He had no doubt that Karkaroff was the reason behind it not being any higher, though there wasn't an expectation of anything else in his mind.

"Was there any news about the third task?" Harry asked, sitting up in his bed for the first time.

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore apologised. "Only that it is to take place upon the twenty-fourth of June and that the scores you have earned in the prior two tasks will help or hinder you in the final task."

"Do you know when we'll know?" Harry pressed.

"Once more, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid not," Dumbledore answered. "As you two will know, Barty Crouch is the leader and director of tournament operations and I have not received any meaningful correspondence from him in a number of days. Even during the judging of the second task, he was not particularly forthcoming."

"Do you think he's okay?"

"I do not know," Dumbledore admitted, his blue eyes downcast. "He has always been a singular man and, after his son's incarceration, that was true more so than ever. I fear I do not know the man well enough to postulate."

Harry nodded, mostly to himself.

"Thank you anyway, Headmaster." Harry said, settling back into the pillows of his bed.

"Of course, my boy," Dumbledore said. "Also, I should mention that, after I spoke with the Merfolk, they were most impressed with your work in the task. Within their language, the terms 'impressed' and 'fearful' are almost intertwined, but in their eyes, to move water as you did was magnificent. A sentiment I share."

Harry grinned, his face ever-so-slightly red at Dumbledore's words. "Thanks, Sir."

Dumbledore nodded, a private smile on his face, leaving Harry and Fleur to themselves once more. Harry wished to stay awake, but to converse as he had, had already drained him of his energy. Fleur could see the weariness in his eyes and so she allowed Harry to settle into his bed once more, pressing a kiss to his forehead just as he began to drift into sleep.

* * *

The world had already plunged into darkness when Harry woke up once more. In fact, as Harry discovered with a glance to his watch, it was the middle of the night.

Just as he had awoken, Pomfrey appeared briefly to check his condition, though she left just as quickly. Harry took that as a positive - he needed to leave the infirmary _soon =_ The ache in his body was far more gentle than before, too.

Eikthyrnir was nowhere to be found, which Harry found odd. He considered that the deer might have been sleeping or that he was at the Black Lake. The deer seemed to enjoy being near the water - perhaps it was simply being so close to such a unique body of the element that was so integral to his existence.

Often, Harry would watch Eikthyrnir as he played with the water there, forming ripples on its surface or taking in its water, only to return it, purified and clean. Harry wondered if Eikthyrnir was attempted to recreate the beauty of the stream he'd loved so dearly, except at a scale far larger than before.

Harry took his wand from the chair beside him into his hands, his body itching to _feel_ magic once again. As he did, there was a feeling of relief that filled him that seemed to stem from the wand itself, as though it wanted to feel its master's magic once again as well.

There was a closeness to his wand that he felt then that he had not felt before, as though before when he'd been holding it with gloves on, but now it was on his bare flesh. The wand, more so than ever, felt like an extension of himself and the wood returning to his touch was as though he had regained a limb.

With the wand in his hand, things just felt _right_.

Harry was disrupted briefly by a shadow in his peripheral vision that caught his attention, though he immediately dismissed it as his own paranoia. Infirmaries were, after all, not the happiest places to be alone in.

It did not matter if it _was_ anything, either. With his wand in his hand, he felt stronger than ever.

Harry longed to be out of the infirmary. To be under his own power once again. He needed to explore magic. He _needed_ to do what he loved to do - not to be under constant evaluation and questioning.

In an effort to stave off the irritation, he cast his mind back to the second task.

To believe that such a thing was possible was a matter of thought, but to be able to bring such an act to fruition not once, but _twice_ , was an act that even Harry could not believe.

It was a stark reminder of the power of nature, though.

The sheer force that Harry used in that act, to only change the world around him fractionally, was incredibly humbling. The Northern Magics were wondrous, their place in Harry's heart immovable, but they were natural. They thrived in the _supernatural_ , rather than the unnatural, and the second task was proof of that.

The second task taught Harry that. He was an instrument of nature - and, to change nature was proved folly there.

Perhaps, he reasoned, that was why he had failed for so many years at Charms. There was not much that felt natural within Charms, at least to Harry. To make kettles dance or for flowers to sing - that was not within their nature. To force square shapes into round holes as one did then by use of artificial hand-motions and theory was not comfortable, at least to Harry.

There was nature in change. In chaos. And, as such, in Transfiguration. There did not seem to be any nature in levitation or banishing.

Harry was curious, then, as to what could be accomplished naturally, within the Northern Magics, that may mirror the affects of Charms. He had already lived most of his wizarding life without them and he was not enormously hindered. There had been a nature to his life that was almost preferable to the ease with which life was afforded with Charms.

He knew that it was possible. And, if he were to live a more natural life, he just _knew_ that he'd feel closer to magic than ever before.

Such thoughts were halted, however, when the shadow in the corner of his eye returned, though this time it was accompanied with a knock on the door.

"Can I come in?" asked a voice behind the wooden door. A voice that Harry _definitely_ recognised.

Harry nodded, before realising the futility of such a gesture when the intended recipient was separated from him by an opaque, wooden door, and said, with his voice rough from sleep. "Y-yeah, come in."

Tonks appeared from the darkness of the corridor and into the lightened infirmary with an air of resigned nervousness. It was odd, Harry thought, to see her as skittish as she was. He had thought he would mirror her, in that regard, yet the tiredness he felt dulled his nerves, the world foggy in his post-sleep drowsiness.

She stood at the bottom of his bed, the entire length of the frame separating them. She hooked her thumbs into the belt-loops of her jeans, her eyes fixed to the floor as she did. Her hair, however, was the most striking aspect of her appearance, purely in its normality. Her hair was a mousy brown, ending at the space between her shoulder blades.

Despite everything, the sight of Tonks, abnormally nervous, did not seem at all right with Harry.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, the words ash in his mouth, but he knew that he had to break the silence between them.

Tonks chuckled nervously, before nodding. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "I just wanted to talk to you, I suppose."

"I suppose we do need to, y'know, _talk_." Harry replied. Just the sight of Tonks, as she was, was enough for the nerves to build within him too.

The air between the two of them was thick, the very act of talking felt like towing a car with their bare hands.

Tonks, however, had gained some strength.

"Look, Harry, I'm just sorry," she said, her voice quick, like she was ripping out a tooth. "I know what I did was wrong. I know I should've realised how you felt. I knew what it was like to feel how you feel and I should've been better. All I can say is that I'm just not that great sometimes. I rush into things and that goes wrong sometimes. This time, it went really wrong."

"I'm sorry too," Harry said. "I'm sorry for how I reacted. I could only see you as someone I would be with, rather than how amazing you've been as a friend. You did things for me that no-one else did, or will ever do and I could never really appreciate that because I was too busy thinking what it'd be like if you were with me."

"How could you not, though?" Tonks said, her hand to her forehead, as she began to pace the floor. She seemed as if she was talking to herself - as though she'd had this conversation, with herself, before. "I'm older, I can look like literally _anything_ , there was a power imbalance there that I just ignored," Tonks stopped herself in her tracks, before turning to Harry. "The thing is, I've never really had an easy time making friends and I thought, with how thoughtful you were and stuff, I'd finally get a close friend like that."

"It was never about that stuff for me, though," Harry explained, the separation offered by Fleur making such words easy. "It was never that you were older, or that you could look like Michelle Pfeiffer or whatever. It was that, you were just magical, I suppose," Harry let out a nervous laugh, realising the oddness of his words. "There was just an incredible magic to you that was entirely unique."

Tonks' breath _hitched_. "T-thank you." she said.

"You made everything easy, too," Harry said, an odd release fueling him, as he finally said aloud what he'd thought for months. "With other people, there was always stress. I was always anxious with other people, but that wasn't there with you," Harry ran a hand through his hair. "You are beautiful - really beautiful - and it was cool that you were older, but it was never _that_ , that made me fall in love with you. It was just _you_."

" _Oh_." Tonks said, her voice holding a peculiar tone.

"But, I think, now that we've had time apart, I realised that there's nothing stopping me from appreciating you as a person, when we're friends," Harry said, joy in his tone. "Is that something you'd want, still?"

" _Definitely_ ," Tonks said, immediately. It sounded odd to Harry's ears. "That's all I've ever wanted. I'd really like my friend back."

"I'm glad," Harry said, as he sat up on the bed. "It's been strange recently, not talking to you. At first, I was really angry, but I realised I was angry that you didn't like me back. That's not something I can force, so I had no reason to be angry at all."

"Well, that's really good." Tonks said, brightly.

"I suppose now I can just appreciate what I have, rather than complain about what I don't, because what I have is great," Harry said, a moment of realisation upon him. "I have Fleur and my magic and Eikthyrnir and now you again. With all that, there's no way I should be irritated."

"Eikthyrnir?" Tonks asked, confused.

"Oh _yeah_ , you haven't met him," Harry said, looking around, as if a giant deer was going to appear from thin air. "He's my familiar."

"When did you meet hi- _oh,_ " Tonks realised, stopping herself. "That's really cool."

"Yeah, he's this really intelligent deer," Harry said, smiling. "We should show him Die Hard - I bet he'd love it."

"Why would a deer enjoy Die Hard?" Tonks asked.

"He's _intelligent_ \- that's all the reason in the world." Harry said. Tonks gave him a surprised laugh in response - it sounded as though she'd not made the noise in a while.

"Well, that's all really good," Tonks said. "I'm really glad you happy. Honestly, if the person that I met, drawing on that bench in Hogsmeade in September met you, they wouldn't recognise themselves."

"I have you to thank for that." Harry said, to which Tonks smiled.

"I wouldn't say that," Tonks said. "I didn't teach you how to summon lightning."

"No, but you made me believe that I could," Harry said. "I doubt I'll forget that."

There was silence for a time, the rust within their friendship shown in the gaps that were not there before. It would take time, Harry reasoned, before they were as they once had been, though Harry doubted he even wanted that.

The largest change though was in eyes. Before, Harry would long to meet her beautiful eyes, to see the ever-changing colours within them and the joy that danced within those shades. It was mesmerising.

Now though, he did no such thing. It was Tonks, however, that flicked her eyes at Harry on occasion, as if afraid of the depth of his brilliant, green eyes.

"You don't see me any differently now, do you?" Harry asked, breaking the silence.

Tonks gave an anxious laugh. "It's sort of hard not to," she said. "It's not in a bad way or anything. I just always thought of you as a friend and I assumed the feeling was mutual."

Her words hit Harry oddly, surprise on his face.

"So, you don't think any less of me?" Harry prodded further, rather than asking what he wished to. "After what happened?"

Tonks' eyes turned soft. "I don't think you could do anything that would make me think less of you, Harry," she said. "You're my best friend."

Harry smiled. "You're my best friend, too."

A glint of _something_ came into Tonks' eyes then. There was an energy that returned to her then that Harry had missed greatly - something so entirely _Tonks_ that Harry was reminded of how happy he used to be when he would spent time with her.

"By the way," Tonks began, and her voice was _hers_ again. There was a giddiness to her again, her hair playing its way through the rainbow. "I was out doing some undercover work in the muggle world a while ago, when I saw something."

Her attitude was infectious. "What was it?" Harry asked, playing along.

Tonks rounded the end of his bed, so that she was closer to him. " _Well_ ," she said. "I was just walking around London, minding my own business when I see something. Something _incredible_. Something absolutely magnificent."

" _Go on._ "

" _Die Hard With a_ _Vengeance_ ," Tonks said, her voice barely a whisper, but Harry _shivered_ in awe. "They're making another Die Hard."

"Are you serious?" Harry asks, his voice high and joyous.

"Would I joke about _Die Hard_?" Tonks retorted, rhetorically. "This is what we've been waiting for. This is no time for jokes."

"When does it come out?" Harry asked, near-frantically.

"Late-May - I've already booked the day off work," Tonks said, immediately. "The moment tickets become available, I'm buying two of them for us. We're gonna watch it on the Welsh island of Barry, too, so we have the cinema to ourselves."

" _Awesome_ ," Harry said, grinning brightly. "I can't wait."

Tonks matched his grin. "Neither can I."

* * *

Harry managed one more day of supervision before he realised that he needed to leave.

It simply needed to happen. The feeling of Pomfrey's magic upon him, analysing his every breath simply made him anxious. He was not receiving any potion, or any treatment. Simply being watched.

Dressing and standing up was painful, though he did not care. He could rest again when he returned to his own room. Thankfully, lungs were easily healed with magic, or the process would've been all the worse.

The really tricky aspect of it all was to time his exist in such a manner that Pomfrey would not see him leaving. It was a feat that was only made possible by his friendship with Dumbledore - their companionship providing Harry with the knowledge that there was to be a staff meeting that evening.

Harry needed only to wait and then he could leave, uncontested.

With remarkable ease, he transfigured a stray piece of parchment into a cane and walked out of the infirmary. The halls were dark, with curfew in action, though he still donned the Invisibility Cloak as he stumbled through the halls.

Harry had noticed, in his planning of the Second Task, that something odd had occurred with the Cloak. Whether it was by accident or design, the hood of the cloak had actually been folded flat, such that it was easier to drape over one's self, though it lost the ability to be worn as a cloak - as though it was a blanket, rather than attire.

Harry wondered if it was his Dad's work. Maybe he and his friends at school had, in an effort to cover all of them, folded the silken material flat. He pictured, briefly, his Dad and his friends crouched underneath the cloak, hiding from Filch or a prefect. Harry smiled to himself.

Harry doubted that the cloak was much use anyway. With every step, he wheezed and his bones clicked in and out of place, his transfigured cane clacking against the stone floors. Still, he wore it, the cloaking feeling like home as he did.

However, as Harry made his way through the grounds, the sounds that hung upon the periphery of his hearing began to grow louder and louder. At first, Harry dismissed it as the ambient noise that naturally pervaded the castle. The paintings were _never_ silent and the suits of armor danced long-forgotten courting dances in the darkness - Harry doubted the castle had ever been silent since it was built.

However, within the darkness, the shadows began to swirl around him and Harry could avoid it no longer. He held his breath within his lungs, waiting for whatever it was that was near him to appear.

Unconsciously, Harry drew his wand, holding it tightly in his palm.

The noises became louder and louder, Harry's world filling with sound. It was inescapable, the way that his world had transformed from the peace and silence of the empty corridors, to waiting at the edge of a knife for his would-be-assailant to appear.

And, just when Harry thought the tension in his body could not mount any higher, he _saw_ it.

There was a flash of blue that appeared before his eyes, just for a moment. The briefest moment. Harry jumped in place.

But that was the end of it.

His world fell back to normal, the castle no longer so loud in his ears. The darkness became even once more.

Harry was baffled, then. Was he being followed? Was someone wanting to scare him?

He wasn't in any condition to defend himself and so he rushed through the corridor he was in. The pressure upon his wounds was painful, but he was too anxious to care.

Thankfully, Harry soon reached a bright, lit corridor that led to the Grand Staircase, and he knew that he was okay.

It was then, that he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

And nearly jumped out of his _skin_.

Harry turned, as fast as he could, to face the other person, and relief flooded him, just as his cloak fell from his back.

Fleur stood behind him, laughing as she had spooked him, a childish joy filling her face. Harry felt foolish for being so worried, when after everything, it was her.

" _Thanks_ , Fleur." Harry said, though he was happy to see her.

"It is what you deserve for leaving the hospital," Fleur said, though she noticed the hobble in his step and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, so that he could walk unhindered. "Do you not wish to be healthy?"

"I was going mad in there," Harry replied. "I couldn't stand staring at the blank walls any longer - it's unbearable," Harry turned to look at her. "Why were you in the castle, anyway?"

Fleur smiled. "To ensure that you were not going _too_ mad, of course," she said. "Though, with your paranoia, I fear I am too late."

Fleur lead the pair of them through the castle. They made it to the door that lead toward the Hogwarts grounds, at which point a frown appeared on Harry's face.

"How's Gabrielle?" Harry asked, wishing for conversation in an attempt to distract himself from the aches in his body.

"She is far better now that she has her savior," Fleur said with a warm grin. "She has an enormous crush on some ridiculous English boy - she's told _everyone_ she met about him."

Harry smiled. "I'm sure she'll grow out of it."

"I do doubt that," Fleur said. "From what I hear, the Delacours are easily swayed by you Englishmen, with your cold weather, dreadful food and messy hair."

"My hair isn't _that_ messy!" Harry asserted.

Fleur stopped to look at him, running a hand through his mane of hair, each strand sticking at every angle imaginable. She gave him a great smile, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"You are wonderful at many things, _mon cheri_ , but controlling your hair is not one of them." Fleur said, soothing one of the tangles out with her deft fingers.

Soon, they reached Fleur's carriage, the Beauxbatons accommodations lit up despite the time. Harry immediately sat upon the bed, the pain in his bones horrid.

"Fleur, why are we here?" Harry asked.

"Well, this is where I sleep," Fleur said, her tone innocent. "Now is the time to be doing such a thing, non?"

Harry smiled at the wonderful girl before him. "Your bed is very comfy."

Fleur matched his smile. And the, she did something that _grabbed_ Harry's attention.

She took off the jacket that she wore, revealing the clothes underneath. The _few_ clothes underneath.

Harry was _very_ glad she had found him.

"It is," she agreed. Fleur crawled over to him, upon the bed, so that they were sharing one-another's space. They were sharing each-other's air. "There is another thing, however, that I wished to do with you tonight."

Harry pulled her into his lap, _needing_ to feel her skin against his. "And what's that?"

Fleur smiled, her lips _just_ brushing against his.

" _French_."

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed it - let me know what you thought with a review.**

 **As ever, if you have a question, feel free to PM me.**

 **Until next time!**


	27. Chapter 27

**Hi there!**

 **I really appreciate your kind reviews and words on the last chapter. They mean a lot to me.**

 **I hope you enjoy this next chapter - it was fun to write.**

 **Again, reviews and PM are always welcome and appreciated. They are the greatest inspiration for me to write.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Against his own best interest, Harry found himself out in the world more and more.

As Harry had expected, the very day after he left the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey had cornered him, and told him off for not staying in the infirmary for the prescribed duration, though there was a level of understanding behind her stern words that Harry appreciated.

Nonetheless, she'd allowed him to leave freely on the prevision that he take a treatment of potions. Given the pain that was involved in just standing up for any extended period, he offered no friction to her wishes.

She'd also said to move as little as possible for the foreseeable future. However, such a thing was difficult when Gabrielle peered up at Harry, her innocent blue eyes joyful and guileless, and asked, in her accented English, for a tour of the grounds. He could not fault her, either, as he'd had an identical reaction the moment that he saw the castle for the first time.

And, when he'd said yes, Gabrielle had been so excited that she had not even questioned why he was in Fleur's room with only his boxers on.

Harry leaned upon Fleur as they walked, Gabrielle just ahead of them, her eyes wide as she took in all that she could see.

"She has not seen Beauxbatons," Fleur said, her voice quiet as she leaned in to Harry. "This is the first castle she has ever seen."

Harry smiled. "I doubt her reaction would be any different if she _had_ ," he said. " _Nothing_ could compare to Hogwarts."

"You are correct - Hogwarts does not compare to Beauxbatons," Fleur said. "A palace as beautiful as ours should never be compared to your old, decrepit mess of a building."

Harry shook his head, fighting a smile. "You see, a castle as old as ours has _history_. And it has taken damage, but that's because of all of the people that want to steal it," he said. "If no-one wanted our castle, I'm sure it'd be as immaculate as yours."

"Your castle would still lack any sense of architecture or style." Fleur said, her nose raised to the air faux-snootily.

Harry knew a fair amount about architecture, the subject entertaining both the cerebral and artistic aspects of his mind, and she was fairly right. The castle was a stylistic mess and he was fairly sure the stonemasons had changed their minds halfway through the construction, entire sections of the castle seemingly erected centuries apart, but it still _looked_ incredible.

"There is as much magic in _one_ stone of Hogwarts than there is in all of Beauxbatons." Harry retorted.

Fleur stopped where she stood. "If your castle is so magical, how is it that Nicholas Flamel attended and supported Beauxbatons?" Fleur questioned. In the distance, Eikthyrnir had returned from one of his jaunts. Gabrielle ran to him, captivated by him once more.

"And yet, he still chose to entrust _Hogwarts_ with his Philosopher's Stone." Harry said, hiding a wince as a jolt of agony ran through his shins. Pomfrey had said that his major tendons had healed already, though often he felt as though they were still growing by the millimetre.

Thankfully for Harry, Gabrielle had grown tired of walking the grounds and had taken a seat on the lawns that bordered the lake, her back leaning upon Eikthyrnir's large frame.

As February had ended, so too had the cold snap, the sun more than just a bright ornament in the sky, making the grounds far warmer and pleasant than they were. The Delacours still insisted upon wearing a jacket and scarf, but Harry, for the first time that year, had worn only a jumper.

"'Arry?" Fleur asked, as the two of them walked toward her sister.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever been to Beauxbatons?"

There, Harry was stumped.

"No." Harry said, quietly.

"Then you have not the knowledge to understand how wrong you are." Fleur said, with a tone of triumph.

Harry sat down beside Gabrielle, an utter feeling of relief filling him as he rested, as though that patch of grass was an oasis in a desert. With an air of utter grace, Eikthyrnir raised his antlers and made the rippling tide of the water dance before them. Eikthrynir brought a wave of water from the lake into the air, forging it into birds people like temporary sculptures in the sky, only to return to the water from whence they came.

Fleur, looked over the top of Gabrielle's mesmerised head to Harry. "I suppose you will just have to visit at some point," she said, a smile on her face as she watched her beloved sister's joy. "It would not be right for a man as intelligent as you to labour on such false presumptions."

Harry looked at Fleur. "I could visit?"

Fleur nodded. "Oui," she said. "It is not open to the public, of course, but during the summer its halls and library are open to students and guests."

Harry's mind rushed to thoughts of once-forgotten Helian magics within the library and his face could not contain his excitement. "That'd be _amazing_."

Fleur gave a quick glance to Gabrielle, as to check if she was listening to them, before remembering that they were conversing in English. "I have not yet told Gabby, but I am thinking of applying for a Charms mastery in Paris." she said.

Pride _filled_ Harry then, a smile growing upon his face. Behind Gabrielle, he linked their hands. "That's _amazing_."

Fleur smiled. "I thought so too," she said. "But the Charms master that I shall be following begins foundational tutoring in the summer, so I will not be able to spend the summer with her like I used to."

"But she can visit, can't she?" Harry asked, hopeful.

Fleur nodded, though her face appeared unsure to Harry's eyes. "We would spent all of our time in the summer together," she said. "We would go to the beach or go into the nearest town together. I would tell her of what I learned at school and she would tell me of her friends. We would feel so close with one-another then and I don't think I wish to lose that."

Harry took a moment to look upon the two sisters.

Their love was obvious.

It was within the natural tilt of their bodies, so that would lean into each other, as if to draw strength. The way in which Fleur's eyes would track the joy in Gabrielle's face as Eikthyrnir played with nature. The conversations that were held silently in their clear, blue eyes. Their hair, plaited identically, as Fleur had taught Gabrielle how to when she was younger. The comfort and _ease_ they felt around one-another that impossible elsewhere.

"I don't think anything could change how close you two are," Harry said, as he held Fleur's eyes. "I don't think time is what makes love. I think it's care, and you two could not care more for each other."

Fleur accepted his words, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. With her other hand, she wrapped an errant strand of Gabrielle's hair behind her ear, smoothing her hair down as she did. "What I was meaning to say was that, if I was to begin my mastery, I will be living in Paris and you can visit," she said. "I have spoken to Papa before and he has said that I can live in the family apartment if I move to the city."

Harry smiled widely. "I'd love that," he said, his joy fervent. Fleur matched his smile, both of their minds racing of the fun that summer could hold. "You can finally show me how bad all of the food I've ever eaten was."

"I doubt your English stomach will be able to contain its wonder at foods with flavour." Fleur said.

"I doubt your French mouth understands what flavour _is_." Harry replied, his eyes flickering down at Fleur's red lips.

Fleur leaned in, her breath at his ear. "I have not heard you complain about my French mouth before, _mon cheri_." she whispered, her words tickling at Harry's skin.

Harry could only smile in response, as his spine shivered.

Harry settled into the grass beneath him, the sun above him pleasant against his face. He reached back and ran a hand through Eikthyrnir's coat, the buck a comfortable presence beside him. Eikthyrnir, it seemed, had taken a shine to Gabrielle, and sought to protect her, his mighty form wrapping around her, his body in-between her and the Forbidden Forest that stood ominous, a furlong or so behind them.

"What do you plan to do this summer?" Fleur asked as she too settled into the grass, taking off her scarf.

"I'm not entirely sure," Harry admitted. "I know for a fact I'm never going back to my relatives, I just don't know where else I can go."

Fleur's eyes turned soft. "Could you not stay in your wizarding district?" she asked. "Horizont Alley or something?"

The corners of Harry's eyes crinkled, a half-smile upon his face.

" _Diagon_ ," he said, before considering her words. "I'm not sure. I don't know if they just allow minors to live in hotels without question."

"Well, I know in France that they are fairly lenient for such things," Fleur explained. "It's quite common for muggleborns to be exiled from their family and need a place to stay."

"I suppose I'll have to find out," Harry said. "If not, well, I'm sure I might be able to convince Dumbledore to let me move into my family's old house a year early."

"Even if he says no, I do doubt anyone would make a fuss if you moved into your own family's home." Fleur said. He had told her of Godric's Hollow and of his parents on one evening they had spent together, of their life not yet lived and the shell they had left behind.

"If the Dumbledore's did not also live at Godric's Hollow, there'd be no issue at all," Harry said. "I'm sure I can work something out. Even if I'm sleeping rough some nights, or I'm just living on buses and trains, I'm never going back."

In the air, an odd wind picked up, the air currents curling and turning cold. Harry felt an impulse to turn around, as though there was someone watching him, but as he did, he could only see the leaves of the trees move to the breeze. He found it odd, though he ignored it.

"It won't come to that, I promise," Fleur said, her hand running up his arm in comfort. "With what you've done for my family, you will always have a place with the us."

Harry did not respond in words, for there were not any that he could find that could properly express the gratitude he felt then. However, he did not need to, for the look in his brilliant, green eyes spoke volumes.

For a moment, Harry allowed himself to breathe and to realise how fortunate he was. Yes, he was in pain. Yes, he was being targeted by Voldemort. But, he had the most wonderful people he could ever imagine in his life. And, on a day like that, with such peace and beauty surrounding him, he felt as though things would be okay.

The feeling was short-lived, however, as once more the wind picked up, the breeze uncomfortable against Harry's neck.

And, once more, he felt as though eyes were upon him, though as he turned around, there was nothing there.

"You know, Tonks came to speak to me a few days ago." Harry said, attempting to throw off his growing unease.

Fleur inclined her head, her hand stilling on his arm. "What did you talk about?"

"We just apologised to each other."

"What did _you_ have to apologise for?" Fleur asked, her brow furrowing.

"The fact that I ran away from my life instead of being mature and dealing with my feeling, and for brushing her away." Harry said.

"I doubt the cause of those feelings deserves your apology, though." Fleur said, her voice strong.

"A friend would, though."

"Is that what you two are now?" Fleur asked, her eyes looking out onto the lake. Upon the surface, Eikthyrnir mimicked Harry's efforts in the Second Task with barely a modicum of the effort he himself used, to Gabrielle total fascination.

"That's what we're trying to be." Harry said.

Fleur's eyes flicked toward his. "'Arry, I say this with the utmost care for you," she began. "But, if a person has the capacity to hurt you once, they have the capacity to do so once more."

Harry forced down his knee-jerk reaction, allowing a rational thought to form through the emotion. "I don't think we'd get that far if we never forgave, though," he said. "She might've hurt me once, but I think she deserves another chance."

Fleur took his hand in both of hers. "Just make sure you guard your heart more carefully this time."

Harry gazed into her beautiful, azure eyes. "I don't think I need to _now_ , Fleur."

And, as he spoke, there was a flicker of something there that he did not recognise.

* * *

As the potions began to take affect, and Harry was thereby not incapacitated by the pain his body was under, he could finally exercise his fascination with magic once more. Moreso than ever, he found intrigue within the Dumbledore notebook.

It became obvious to Harry that he simply _had_ to live his life as closely to his own magic as possible. Magic was his life. His salvation and his spirit. And, it would be a disservice to himself to veer away from that.

Each time he would look upon the world that surrounded him, or he would walk the grounds with Eikthyrnir's majesty his companion. Just as he would step into his room and feel the warmth of his fire strip away the stresses and the strains of the day, the realisation became more clear than ever.

And, in order to exact his profound vision, he sought after the knowledge of those before him.

The Dumbledore family, as Harry discovered, were not all as peaceful as the Headmaster. The first writings within the pages, written in a form of Latin Harry did not truly understand, spoke of whips of fire and lightning that could tear through legions of an army without hesitation or resistance. Then, there spoke of transfiguration for turning the air within the lungs to ash, or for the water in the body to acid.

There was no perversion of nature. There was chaos and there was pain, but there was nothing that could not be found in the world elsewhere.

However, what most intrigued Harry was not a practical writing, but rather a section of theory written by one Antioch Dumbledore. He was apparently a man largely forgotten to History, with no great feats to his name, though Harry thought History was unkind in that regard, for it was clear that his mind was that of a _Dumbledore_.

He postulated that, when the bond of wizard and wand was strong enough, the process of spellcasting is abridged - or, rather, _refined_. Hence, it was far easier to perform silent casting with the correct wand. However, he believed that it went _far_ , _far_ further than that.

Antioch believed, as Harry supposed, that wand motions were largely artificial; they were a demonstration of humanity's natural need to control. A capable wizard did not need any wand motion at all, so long as they held a true and powerful connection to their own magic. In his writings, he spoke briefly of his hunt for a wand capable enough to actualise his vision, a wand as powerful as the man so clearly was.

A Wand of Destiny.

In order to do so, he left the town that he lived within and sought refuge in the wilds and forests of the west of England. He knew that he had to immerse himself in the nature of the world and the magic that encapsulated the world around him, to feel the vibrations of the magic of the world in its most pure form. He was called a madman for his theories - so ostracised was he that the only ones that did not think him a lunatic were his own brothers. Antioch was gone from the world for years upon end, the life he lived then not documented, though he did return. And, when he did, he returned with a wand in his hand and power in his grasp.

He would never say _how_ it is that his wand came to be. And, those that sought the answers forcefully soon found themselves at the wrong end of his Deathstick, and their lives shorter as a result. He had grown violent in those years, the solitude making a feral man of him. He learned then what he was, and _who_ he was.

He was a powerful man, but above all, he was a man that simply needed for his greatness to be actualised. He needed to be as great as he was able to be. And, in the end, his power was useless unless it was exercised. His greatest fault, as he was shown, was that man grew addicted to exercising their power. He needed, beyond anything, to be recognised, and when Antioch grew desperate, he was left with nothing but the core of himself.

The need to be seen as brilliant.

His final realisation, as written in his notes, was that almost all of the spell craft the world knew then was folly. It was the stabilising wheels on a child's bicycle. If a wizard was great enough, his mind strong enough, his spirit unquestionable, there were no limits. Words spoken were just air in the breeze. All that mattered was what the mind believed.

When a wizard became _one_ with magic, there wasn't a thing that was impossible. A great man could call forth _anything_ with magic - they need only _try_.

There was no record of his death, though Harry did not doubt that it was a martial one. A man like Antioch did not die unless he was forced to. But his writings did call forth intrigue within Harry. A stirring of fascination - not at the absolute power that Antioch craved in the end, but to be true to one's self.

Perhaps Antioch's theory was correct. Or, perhaps this was yet another example of the hubris of mankind. Harry did not care.

It certainly felt like an excellent idea to him, though.

* * *

Even as the days passed, Harry couldn't shake the thought of Antioch Dumbledore.

However, information on the man was a rare commodity. Within the records of the library, Harry could not find a single mention of Antioch Dumbledore. Despite being born within England, he never attended Hogwarts, nor did he hold a single position of record within the ministry, despite his magical prowess. He was never incarcerated, or owned land or held political power.

To Harry, it simply did not make sense. The man was a mystery that he could not let go. He could not shake the irritation that he held for not solving it. The man was brilliant, holding a hypothesis that could shape how Harry himself viewed magic, and yet there was nothing. He _ought_ to have been remembered.

In the end, Harry decided to visit _Albus_ Dumbledore, as Harry doubted anyone else would be more likely to have known anything about his predecessor than the man himself.

There was still a soreness in Harry's bones as he walked, though it easily faded into the periphery, especially when compared to the agony of days passed. And, yet again, as he walked through the halls, despite their emptiness Harry could still not shake the feeling that eyes were following his every motion.

By good fortune, as Harry arrived at the Headmaster's office, the door opened to reveal Dumbledore.

"Ah, Harry, I was just going for a walk," Dumbledore said, his eyes brightening as he saw Harry. "Would you care to join me?"

Harry nodded, fighting the grimace that came at the thought of such an action.

"In truth, it was my intention tonight to check upon the protections at the borders of the grounds," Dumbledore said. "There has not been an attack upon the schools, or even the threat of such, but I cannot shake the feeling that there is something coming."

Harry nodded, his breathing deep as he struggled to keep pace with the Headmaster. Albus noticed his plight, his long strides shortening to accommodate him.

"I get the feeling that I'm being watched, these days," Harry said, to which Dumbledore inclined his head. "I don't know if I'm being worried about nothing, or if I ought to follow that feeling."

"Our instincts are rarely wrong, my boy," Dumbledore said. "I have no idea of what may come, but it becomes clearer each day that _something_ is coming."

"Do you think it might be Tom?" Harry asked, as they walked.

Dumbledore weighed his words. "I do not know," he said, after a pause. "It certainly could be. I know it to be our natural desire to jump to the worst possible conclusion; in many ways, it is the safest way to live. But I suppose I'm holding hope that it isn't."

Harry smiled, melancholy. "Has he ever attacked Hogwarts before?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, but I have never been as old as I am now. In his years away, he may have grown more powerful than ever before. There is too much I do not know, and I grow tired of ignorance," he said, before stopping himself. "I do doubt though that you struggled to my office to listen to an old man's gripes. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

Harry nodded. "It was about your family's notes."

Dumbledore smiled, pleased. "I'm glad you have found use in it," he said. "There is great and terrible knowledge there and I have no doubt you can discern the difference."

Harry nodded. "I was wondering about one of your ancestors in particular," he said. "Antioch Dumbledore."

A look of great profundity came upon Albus Dumbledore's face. He stood before the eye of a storm, the wind a force against him. But, there was no fear. There was awe.

"Antioch was an exceptional man," Dumbledore began. "If I may be bold, he is an exceptional man _among_ exceptional men. But he is not a Dumbledore."

"What is he?"

"Tell me - do you know of the Peverells?" Dumbledore asked. In the eye of Harry's mind, the graveyard of Godric's Hollow flashed before him.

"I know they lived in Godric's Hollow."

"Indeed they did," Dumbledore said. "Just as the Potters did and, further in the future, the Dumbledores. They were an odd family - one of the Peverells, William, was even a commander in the Battle of Hastings. However, their story is one of, rather unfortunately, shortened life."

"What happened?"

"Their lineage has been plagued by death," Dumbledore said. "If a battle had minimal casualties, a Peverell would be among them. If a Dark Lord was stopped by a Peverell, their victory would be a Pyrrhic one. And, in the case of Antioch Peverell, a great man would be cut down long before his greatness could be actualised. His two brothers were far different men, melancholy and shrewd in their manner. His eldest brother died just as his brethren did - youthfully. His youngest brother, however, in his shrewdness shied away from the world and lived. "

"So, how did Antioch die?"

"I assume you have read the entirety of his work?" Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded. "Then you will know of his propensity toward the martial aspects of magic. He searched for all of his life for the wand that he believed was his destiny, and when he found it, he needed to use it."

"So someone killed him?"

"Not _one_ , but many," Albus said. "The man was brilliant, but he was foul. The people of England were terrified of his power, and so they rose up as a mob and killed him, stealing his great wand as they did. They were so afraid of the man that they believed his entire line ought to be extinguished, so they intended upon killing even his child who was no more than a babe at the time."

Harry winced at his words.

Dumbledore, however, smiled. "It was Antioch's last great act, however, that prevented that from happening," he said. "As Antioch was murdered, he activated a powerful protecting charm upon his young son, disguising him so that he would not resemble his father until adulthood. That child grew up within the orphanage of Godric's Hollow bearing the name of a fool, a bumbling oaf - a _Dumbledore_."

Harry smiled then, too. "What happened to his wand?"

Dumbledore grinned, almost childishly. "Well, it was believed to be lost to history, though there was always tell of a wand of exceptional power milling around the world," he said. "There was even a thought that Gellert himself held it, though that was largely dismissed as ridiculous."

Harry let out a breath, relieved that he finally had the full story, though Harry knew that there was something more that Dumbledore was not telling him. That feeling was not new, however - it was very rare that he did not know more than everyone else.

The pair reached the outskirts of the grounds. Albus retrieved his wand, words entirely unnecessary as he re-fortified the protections upon Hogwarts.

"Do you think he was right?" Harry asked, as Dumbledore lowered his wand. "With his theories of magic?"

"I think he was a great mage. Great mages often have limits so far away even they themselves cannot see them," Dumbledore said. "I must admit, I myself was engaged with his idea when I first read his words, though now my belief is still as it always is. Magic is a _living_ force. It itself has no limits, it is all-encompassing and ever-changing, but it is the a wizard's downfall to think that he is capable of Godly acts."

Harry frowned. Dumbledore caught it in the corner of his eyes.

"I can see you're disheartened by that," Dumbledore said. "Don't be. When Antioch spoke of a closeness to his magic, he spoke of the adoration he felt in the power he could display. _You_ are far closer to your magic than he shall ever have been. His magic was a possession. Yours is a companion."

"But is it not a pleasant thought?" Harry asked. "To think we are capable of anything?"

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed. "But we are not omnipotent. We are great and we are wonderful, but we must accept our own weakness if we are ever to grow. There is arrogance in the belief that we are infallible. We mustn't be arrogant - we must be honest with ourselves."

Harry swallowed his frown. Dumbledore's words held logic, as they often did, but they did not sit correctly with Harry.

Harry _knew_ , in his youthful folly, that he could do anything. No-one could tell him differently.

"There is a lot of violence in your family's past." Harry said, resisting the urge to argue with his mentor.

Dumbledore raised his eyes to peer upon his surroundings. The trees that they stood within were not the overwhelming woods of the Forbidden Forest, instead sparse willow trees that wafted in the wind. Absently, Dumbledore pointed his wand at one innocuous example, and with a precise motion of his hand, the tree grew several feet, its branches thickening and covering a gate to the school grounds.

"My family are not who I want them to be," Dumbledore said. "I must confess, in my youth I felt the rage inside of me that they themselves did. But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that violence would lead to ruin and ruin alone, and so I pursued life in another direction. It has always been my goal to undo the wrongs my family has done - to finally allow the Dumbledore name to mean something other the horrid things it may once have done."

Harry was stunned into silence. It was not often that the Headmaster talked of Gellert, but it was even more infrequent still when he spoke of anything like this.

"My father was a goodhearted man," Dumbledore said. "But his hands could not enact the goodness that he so wished, and in his worst moments, he was violent. Never to _us_ , but to anyone that would threaten the ones he loved. His heart wished for protection, but all that his hands could manufacture was the violence that ran in his blood."

"Do you wish that he hadn't done what he did?" Harry asked, his voice tentative. "To the muggles that attacked Ariana?"

"I do, but I cannot in my heart discourage what he did because I know why he did such a thing," Dumbledore said, though his head was low as he did. "There is a time for all things. He believed, as most of my family did, that violence was timely in more occasions than it truly is, but I cannot disparage anyone who would think protecting their family was not vital. It is one of my greatest shames, but I confess that is how I feel."

Harry chanced placing an arm on Albus' shoulder, reaching up as he did so. To his surprise, Albus offered him a smile of thanksgiving, though the older man's eyes grew sad.

"You are by far the most peaceful man I know," Harry said. "I've always known that of you. You are a good man and to seek justice, however that may come, does not make you a terrible man, or a violent man. It just makes you a man."

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I am so very glad that you are the one that will carry my family's legacy. I hope you can do what I have not, and heal the wounds that the Dumbledores have made."

"I will try," Harry said. "But, I confess, if I cross paths with Lucius Malfoy or Peter Pettigrew or Tom, I may not be as peaceful as you wish for me to be."

"There is a time for violence," Dumbledore said, after a moment. "The punishment Tom deserves cannot be served to him physically, but the evil he brings to this world must be stopped. But you, yourself, are the victim of the crimes of Malfoy and Pettigrew - it is your family that was killed by their actions. If you believe them to be deserving of violence, no man shall stop you."

"Thank you, Headmaster."

* * *

Fleur's bed seemed to soothe his aching joints, so it only made sense that Harry would sleep there.

As the next task of the tournament was not for another few months, neither he nor Fleur had any massive obligations, and so there was never any reason _not_ to spend their nights together.

So, as Harry approached her door and found it open for his entry, Harry could not say he was surprised. Fleur herself was not there, though, which he found odd. A feeling of unease filled him at being within another person's space on his own, despite having been there a multitude of times before. He did not wish to snoop on her, either, so he was left with very little to do as he waited.

In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his own artwork - a drawing of Fleur that he'd done some days before as she'd been reading and a smile was brought to his face at the thought that Fleur thought it was worthy of display. The colours were far more striking than he remembered them being, each colour more vibrant than the last, each brush stroke wilder. There was a light to his work that hadn't been there before too, as though a window had been opened and the sun had been allowed to enter.

The memory of the hand and the green light were just a memory, then. He hadn't had the dream in months, were before they plagued him nightly. He thought himself happier for it, too. There was no vibrancy to be found in the hand, no joy in its skeletal edges. Perhaps, Harry thought, it belonged in the past.

Harry was dragged away from his self-critique by the arrival of Fleur, the thud of the door opening and the sound of rain upon her carriage her accompaniment, though not the only one, as beside her was Gabrielle, a storybook clutched in one hand and holding her sister's hand tightly in the other. Fleur's eyes brightened as she saw Harry.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," Fleur said, as she glanced toward her sister. "Gabby could not sleep for the rain and she wanted me to read to her."

"Do you want me to leave?" Harry asked, beginning to stand up.

Fleur shook her head. "No, not at all," she said, quickly. "I imagine she'll feel safer with you here."

Harry nodded, and followed Fleur onto the bed. Gabrielle crawled in-between them, pulling the duvet up so that it covered her body up to her eyes. She held onto the edge of Harry's shirt too, as if to ground herself.

Fleur whispered to her, and Gabrielle quietly whispered back, leading the elder Delacour to turn the storybook to a dog-eared page and beginning to read.

For Harry, there was something wonderfully soothing in hearing Fleur's soft voice ease her sister into sleep. He did not know nearly enough French to understand the story that was being told, but to hear the animation in her tone and the warm musicality of her voice calmed Harry, alleviating the tensions that he did not even realise he held.

With the ever-present rain pattering against the carriage, Harry himself felt himself begin to fall away into sleep. However, he was stopped from doing so as something stuck out in Fleur's speech.

 _Baguette de Sureau_. Or, as Harry understood - Elder Wand.

Harry had heard a name bearing such a name before. Elder wood, was after, a not uncommon wand wood. Harry himself bore a wand of such wood. He knew not why such an innocuous phrase claimed his attention - perhaps it was the awe with which Fleur spoke it, or the gasp that escaped Gabrielle as she did.

Many times, Fleur spoke the word, until it took on a new name.

 _Baguette de Destin_.

Wand of Destiny.

Then, _then_ was Harry truly fascinated. He had heard that title before. Within the history of Antioch Peverell, such a title occurred. His entire work had lead to creating or discovering such a wand. A wand greater than others. A wand that could allow his greatness to be shown, a weapon more violent than all others and a tool that could never be bettered.

Fleur leaned over her sister's head. "She is asleep." she whispered.

Harry nodded, standing from the bed and taking Gabrielle into his arms, carrying her into her room, though his mind was entirely elsewhere. Fleur led him into Gabrielle's room, where he laid her down in her bed. Fleur pressed a kiss to her sister's sleeping head.

"She has always enjoyed that tale," Fleur said, as they returned to her bed. She crawled into Harry's arms, her head on his chest. "It is rather macabre, I think, but she loves The Three Brothers."

"What story is that?" Harry asked, hanging upon her words like a shirt on a clothes-hanger.

"Have you not heard of that story?" Fleur asked. Harry shook his head against the tip of her head. "It is very popular in France. Maybe it is not so here."

"I don't think there's a muggle counterpart," Harry said. He doubted that the Dursley's would talk him to sleep either. "What is the story? It sounded interesting."

"You sound as eager to hear it as Gabby did," Fleur commented, before leaning up on her pillow. "It is the story of three brothers that try to gain passage over a river. They conjure a bridge, but in doing so they anger Death who wished them dead. In order to gain there souls, he sought to alter their destinies by offering them gifts that would lead to their demise."

Harry leaned forward further, his head nearly in her lap. "What happened?"

"Death asked them what they wished for most in the world," Fleur said. "The first brother, brilliant but violent, asked for a wand greater than all the others."

Harry _gasped_. "Oh my God."

"What is it?" Fleur asked, worried.

"It doesn't matter," Harry said, shaking his head. "Could you keep going, please."

"Death took a nearby Elder tree and fashioned a wand of immense power from it, using a thestral's hair as its core being as they were agents of his." Fleur said.

Harry gasped. His hand immediately fell into his pocket, where his fingers grasped around the wand there.

 _His_ wand was of Elder wood. _His_ wand was of thestral core. And, it had been given to him by _Antioch_ _Dumbledore's_ descendant.

 _He_ held the Wand of Destiny.

"What happened to him?" Harry whispered out.

"As you may expect, he sought to use it and attacked an enemy, killing him," Fleur said. "As a result, the man's friends conspired and killed the eldest brother in his sleep. In the end-"

"The wand was lost to history." Harry finished, his words heavy.

"I thought you had not heard the story before." Fleur said, her voice lilting, confused.

"I think I may have done," Harry said. His mind was racing. "What happened to the other brothers?"

"The second brother, a melancholy yet arrogant man, asked for something to call back the dead, thereby stealing away Death's power," Fleur said, and Harry's mind jumped to Cadmus, Antioch's younger brother. "Death brought a stone from the river and fashioned a Stone of Resurrection. But when the second brother used it to call back his lost love, she was a shade of her former self, not of this world but of beyond. Her pain hurt the second brother so much that he ended his life, leaving the stone to his son with a warning of the pain it could wrought."

"And the youngest brother?" Harry asked.

"The youngest brother, humble and wise, knew the intelligence and power of Death, and so asked of a means to hide from Death's influence," Fleur said. Ignotus, Antioch's youngest brother, was a shrewd, wise man. "So Death took off his own Cloak of Invisibility, offering the garment to the youngest brother. This was an Invisibility Cloak that was not worn away by time, but remained with its power _forever_. Water could not damage it, fire could not burn it.

"The youngest brother took this cloak and shied away, wearing it for all of his life until his time came, at which time he gave the cloak to his eldest son," Fleur said. "At which time, he walked into the afterlife, greeting Death as an old friend."

Harry could not believe what he was hearing. He knew only of one cloak that could do what such a cloak could do. One cloak that could survive time and was passed from parent to child forever.

And he possessed it. Which would mean that he was the descendant of Ignotus Peverell.

He possessed the Cloak of Invisibility. He possessed the Wand of Destiny.

Fleur, however, was not finished.

"Should a mage unite these three Deathly Hallows, they would become the Master of Death," she said. "A wizard greater than even Death itself."

A great fear filled Harry then, a phantom weight pressing upon him from above so heavily that he felt as if he was going to snap.

"It's quite the story, is it not?" Fleur asked as she finished, lacing their fingers together.

Harry could only nod.

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed it - as always, reviews and PMs are welcome and appreciated.**

 **Until next time!**


	28. Chapter 28

**Hi there!**

 **I hope you enjoy the next chapter - I really enjoyed writing it.**

 **As always, reviews and PMs are greatly appreciated. They're the best part of writing.**

 **Anyway, here it is!**

* * *

The moment he woke the next morning, there was nothing that could stop Harry from finding the Headmaster.

Sleep had dulled the shock, though there was little that could be done. Harry was the sole holder of two of the most powerful magical artifacts in existence. Worse, with another artifact, they could grant power over death, the near-literal Holy Grail of achievements for a wizard. A mage was not limited by the physical, mental or spiritual - only the mortal coil hindered them. Beyond anything else, immortality was the final frontier - the true mark of greatness among magicals - with very few _rumored_ to have achieved it, and only two known immortals in existence.

And Harry - Harry held the key for that lock.

Fleur grabbed out to the empty space that he left, his absence awakening her. She glanced up, thumbing at her bleary eyes.

"Where are you going, _mon cheri_?" Fleur asked, stifling a yawn. "Come back to bed."

Harry kissed the top of her head. "I need to go talk to Dumbledore."

A look of confusion broke through the fog of sleep on Fleur's face. "This is preferable to spending time warm, _cuddling_ , with me?"

"Preferable? No," Harry said with a grin, cupping her face with his hand. "But necessary."

Fleur laid her hand upon his. "Hurry back," she said, her beautiful eyes staring up to him. Harry was very nearly tempted to stay. "Your country is far too cold to sleep alone."

Harry kissed her, fighting away at her playful hands as they pulled him back to bed. "I'll rush."

Harry fought his own mind, pulling away and rushing out of the door lest he stay forever. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a pillow hit the other side of the door, Fleur throwing it at where he used to be.

The noise seemed to snap Harry's mind into focus.

He knew what he was going to do.

There was a science to his motion as he walked, each step purposeful and mechanical as he strode through the grounds of Hogwarts, the mist a fog of war before his eyes. This time, Harry believed, Dumbledore had withheld too much. The castle was deserted, the day being young and the chill biting in the air, but Harry was not hindered. The chill frosted away the anger that had built, leaving only the cold, hard facts.

Harry had no concern for the gargoyles outside the Headmaster's office, barging through their resistance without question, their figures parting without a password. As Harry approached the office, the door swung open without cause, allowing Harry entry to an empty office.

To bide the time, Harry paced the floor of the Headmaster's office, burning away the excess energy that had seeped into his bones. His footfalls were heavy on the carpet, and he withdrew his wand, holding it within his palm, firmly.

It was not long before the Headmaster, no-doubt just awoken, entered the office from his quarters. He was not wearing his half-moon spectacles, they instead were being held in his hand as he rubbed away the sleep in the corner in his eyes.

Harry paced toward him, twirling the wand in his hand so the handle was pointing toward the Headmaster in offering. "I believe this is yours, _cousin_."

Immediately, realisation fell upon Dumbledore's tired face. "I see you have realised the origin of the wand."

"I've realised quite a lot more than that, Headmaster," Harry said, as he began to walk. "For example, we share many-times-great Grandparents, don't we?" Harry turned to look at Dumbledore, their eyes in brutal contact. "With our family's history, it is small wonder that my parents died as they did."

"Harry, if you'd just like to sit do-"

Harry ignored him, continuing to pace. "You know, it's not just genealogy I've found out," he said. "I happened upon a children's tale that you might have heard of - The Tales of Beadle the Bard?"

Dumbledore was in the midst of drawing breath to speak, but Harry cut him off, his ire rising.

"There was one in particular - The Three Brothers - that caught my attention," Harry said, before stopping in his tracks. "Did you not think I'd find out what the wand was? What the cloak was?"

"I didn't, no, bu-"

"Then _what_?" Harry asked, his voice rising, his hair whipping around as if it was in an unseen whirlwind. "You have painted a target on my back for the whole world to see by giving me that wand."

"And you did not already possess one with Tom's actions?" Dumbledore asked, cutting into Harry's tirade. "He has more followers than any of us know, and you believe that these flights of fancy, some six-hundred years old, make things worse?"

"Well they do not make things _better_ , do they?" Harry asked, his voice rising once again. "I take it that the wand I've got is what Gellert used?" Dumbledore nodded, flinching slightly at that name being used in ire. "Then the blood that this piece of wood has shed could dye all the cloth in England red and have some left over for France. You think _I_ should have it?"

"Well, who else should, then?" Albus asked back. "I am nearing the end of my years and there is no-one else following in my footsteps; except you."

"Then the wand should die with you, when the time comes." Harry replied, the vein of his jaw prominent.

"And what - the moment I'm buried, a thousand men fall upon my tomb, hoping for power beyond measure?" Dumbledore asked. Harry forced down the idiocy he felt. "This wand cannot be hidden, or broken, or lost - it always finds a way into the hands of a death-bringer. That is why you must hold it - for you have done no ill with it, as yet, and you shall never do."

"The first act I performed with it was to kill."

"In self-defense."

"In time, the wand could change that." Harry asserted, his spine steel.

"Harry, a wand cannot mold the man you become," Dumbledore said. "This wand you hold amplifies, or rather, _concentrates_ the man that holds it. Tell me - since your possession, have you desired genocide or superiority or cruelty, like its prior owners?"

Harry shook his head stiffly.

"And yet, you are, without question, the foremost Helian mage on the planet," Dumbledore continued, his own legs beginning to pace. "You have saved Eikthyrnir, a being of no equal. You have become more peaceful, not less."

Harry faltered

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asked, exasperated.

"Of what?"

"Of the fact that I hold a Deathly Hallow," Harry said, before correcting himself. "Two Deathly Hallows."

"Because I myself doubt their power," Dumbledore admitted. "There is no proof they give their holders a Mastery over Death. No-one else has performed the feat. It is far more likely that they are simply magical artifacts greater than most."

"How can you have wielded _this_ wand and think that?" Harry asked, utter confusion in his voice. "You must know what this wand can do. Should its owner want to move mountains, mountains _will_ move. You think this is just some relic of History?"

"It is odd that just a day ago you were absolute in your belief of the greatness of mankind, and now you are so sure any great feat is the will of the Gods." Dumbledore said, in misdirection.

"I have met people before - I've met _you._ I know what you, a _great man_ , can do," Harry said, before pausing. " _Then_ there's the Elder Wand. You cannot truly believe that this is a man's work, can you?"

Dumbledore exhaled, before shaking his head. "No, I do not," he admitted, his head hanging down. "The moment I clasped my eyes upon the Elder Wand, I knew it wasn't of this world. There was a magic to it that was simply too _vast_."

"Then you must know that should Tom see me with it, or disarm me and have it for himself, there is no limit to the horrors he could bring." Harry said.

"Indeed, that may happen," Albus agreed. "But _surely_ we must act so as to give ourselves the greatest opportunity to defeat him. You or Neville are the two that shall defeat him. Do you not think it is correct for you to, therefore, have the Elder Wand?"

"I cannot believe you still imagine all of this hinges upon _prophecy_ ," Harry said, anger in his voice, his feet pacing again. Before, the warmth that Harry had brought from the fire would calm him, but then it only stoked the coals inside of his heart. "You gave me the greatest wand in the world, due to _prophecy_. You took this wand from your own masterful hands and placed it into mine due to the barely-understood words of a potential fraud."

Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes turning firm. Harry had watched a hundred people cowed at that expression, but he was not one of them. Dumbledore drew a deep breath. "It is not my belief in this prophecy that sculpted my actions, but Tom's," he said. "He has not many vices, but prophecy is one of them. He fears no man, believing himself superior to all, but he fears the _Gods_."

"He fears you," Harry rebutted. " _So_ , he is a man that fears you, his mind thinking his end shall come from elsewhere, his heart searching for any method of stopping his own demise - tell me, why is it that _you_ cannot end him? How can it not be advantageous for you to hold the wand?"

Dumbledore stood, tall. "Harry, you must understand that this prophecy is not false," he said. "I was the one that recorded its contents. By Tom acting upon it, he has brought its foretelling into fruition. You, or Neville, _must_ be the ones to stop him."

Harry shook his head, throwing away the notion.

"If we are so necessary, then why did you not tell us before this year?" Harry asked, his voice level but his words heavy. "And don't you dare tell me it was to preserve my childhood - you know _damn_ well I never had one."

Magic crackled at the surface of Albus Dumbledore, his ancient power threatening to come forth. Harry was not afraid of the storm that Albus brought forth, for he himself was a storm, the pair of them a hair's breadth from unleashing themselves.

"Because, _Harry_ , I, just as you do now, chose to ignore the writing that is etched so clearly upon the wall," Dumbledore said, circling the room. Harry kept the distance. "For years, I did not believe that a man as terrible as he was could be brought to his end by a child, but as time as passed, I have accepted this as inevitability. I know not how, or when, but it will happen, because Tom has ensured that it must. As soon as I knew in my heart for it to be _certain_ , I told you."

"But why did you not try?" Harry asked. "You sit in your office and plan instead of _trying_ to stop Tom. You've surrendered to fate?"

There was a true anger in Dumbledore's eyes then. A Peverell rage. The same fury that burned inside the green of Harry's.

The pair of them stood, still, neither moving.

"You think I sit here frittering away my days?" Dumbledore asked. "For weeks now, I have spent my near-every waking hour attempting to solve the riddle of Voldemort. You expect me to act without knowledge? To act in ignorance?"

"I expect you to _act_ ," Harry said, inching closer to his mentor. "You know that Death Eaters walk the floors of the ministry without chains on their arms and free breath in their lungs. Lucius Malfoy is the richest man in England and I'm sure his left arm isn't as pale as the rest of him."

"He is a _pawn_ , Harry. A rich pawn, but a pawn nonetheless," Dumbledore said. "He bows to Tom. If he remains in the position he is in now, squabbling with Fudge over the coins in his vault, he is far less dangerous than if I were to vilify him. You _know_ this."

Harry nodded. "I do, you're right," he said. "But at what point does a good plan get in the way of _justice_?" Harry turned, so that he was perpendicular to Dumbledore. "That man deserves either pain, or death, or both. You cannot in good conscience tell me he would not be better served rotting in Azkaban? Is that not an easy position to hold him?"

"If it were possible to imprison that man, it would have happen upon his first trial," Albus said, his nostrils flaring just slightly. "He has too many hands in too many pockets. You know this _too_. You are allowing your frustration to make you foolish."

"And you are allowing your age to make a _coward_ of you."

That was the last straw for Dumbledore, his rage finally breaking free of his control. He seemed to grow in stature, his hair whipping around and his blue eyes flashing with the power of the man. There was no age to this man, no evidence of the wearing of the years as he was then. He was _menacing_ , beyond anything that another living man could offer.

But Harry was not deterred. He stood in-front of this powerful man without fear in his heart. His jaw was clenched, his green eyes _glowing_ , filling his face with a green, death-like hue. His fingers itched their way toward the Elder Wand.

There they stood, two powerful men, neither even thinking of bending to the will of the other, fire in their hearts as they stared upon each other. The air in the room was sucked away by the power of the pair, ozone filling the space that was left. The glass of the window began to shatter, the loose parchment on Albus' desk swirling around the room.

But, just as tension threatened to boil over, the Headmaster's fire flared to life, drawing a flinch from both men and bleeding the energy from the room. And, from the green fire, appeared the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

Harry had not met the man before, though he had seen him from a distance, but as he then shared a room with him then, even in his anger, Harry could not ignore the disappointment he felt for being led by a man such as him. An overweight man, with coiffed hair and an expensive, ill-fitting, suit. He wore shoes that did not match his clothes, seemingly only due to their value, and at the corner of his mouth crumbs sat in clusters.

And, despite the magic that laid thick in the air, as he appraised Harry, he did so with his nose to the air.

Fudge ferreted into his pockets, digging out a handkerchief and dabbing himself with it, lifting a toxic green bowler hat from his head to mop his brow. "Terrible news, I'm afraid," he began. "Last night, old Barty died."

Dumbledore offered a solemn look to Fudge. "I'm sorry to hear that. He was a good man - I'm sure many will miss him," he said. "He was very troubled - let us hope he finds peace now."

"Quite, quite," Fudge said, dismissively. "Worst still, I've got to go about replacing him - everybody wants that job. Willey, Caldernish, Delores; they've all asked for it."

Dumbledore tilted his head as he looked at the Minister. "Perhaps you ought to allow the family to mourn before you fill his place," he said, quizzical of the man before him. Harry himself was confused by Fudge; he seemed to lack the ability to be appropriate. "Do you know of how Barty died?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Fudge asked. "He's gone. No use in wondering why - as you said, a troubled chap."

"You do not suspect foul play?" Dumbledore asked. "You have already said a potential motive, and you have a list of suspects, as you've just shown."

"Oh, I'll have none of that now," Fudge said, waving Dumbledore away with his handkerchief. "There's no way one of my staff would do something like that."

"Cornelius, you must know that such a thing is _likely_ ," Dumbledore said. "Is it not unfair to Barty's memory to simply ignore any investigation?"

Cornelius shuffled over to Dumbledore. "I can't upset the apple cart with this, Albus," he said, attempting to whisper yet still remaining audible to Harry, who stood across the room. "The next election is in a year and I can't afford a blunder."

Dumbledore frowned, swallowing any comment he wished to make. Harry saw then exactly what the Headmaster had dealt with in his years as a politician and, despite their row, he could not help but feel sympathy for the man.

"This is your decision, Cornelius," Albus reminded him. "But to simply allow a respected man to die without question seems a blunder to me."

Fudge nodded along. "Quite right, just as I thought too."

Dumbledore looked tired. "Was there anything else, Minister?"

Fudge shook his head. "No, not at all," he said, stepping back into the fire from whence he came. "I'll leave you to your duties."

"A pleasure as always, Cornelius." Albus said, as their leader left the office.

As the Minister left, Harry and Albus turned to one-another, though the mounting tension had fizzled away, the floundering Minister removing any of the anger they had felt. Harry wished to be enraged, to unleash the energy that was once there, but there was nothing to release. Albus appeared similarly, his hands clasped in front of his body.

The brief intermission had allowed for self-reflection, and with it, _shame_. Harry thought the world of the man before him, and to show such vitriol was utterly disagreeable to him.

"Shall we sit, and discuss this properly?" Albus asked, after a moment. Harry nodded immediately, taking a seat so that a desk separated the two of them.

"I think we allowed our emotions to dictate our conversation," Albus said, continuing. Harry nodded, agreeing. "What is it that we are truly discussing here?"

Harry considered himself.

" _This_ , I suppose," he said, retrieving his wand and placing it upon the desk. "And who should posses it."

"Harry - I wish for you to have it," Dumbledore said. "I know that it is not easy to recognise, but I am old. I am in the winter of my life, and your spring has only just began. Surely it would be far more prudent to allow you to forge the greatest harvest with the Elder Wand in your spring, rather than plant seeds that will die in my winter?"

"For as long as you yet live, this wand will be of greatest use in your hands," Harry said. "I do not believe it to be a matter of seasons. I have not reached my full development, just as you alluded, but you have. Should the threat of Tom be in the future, I would agree, but the threat is upon us _now_ ," Harry ran a hand through his hair. "I don't have the time to forge a harvest."

Dumbledore inspected his glasses for a moment, before placing him to the table. By some odd urge, Harry did the same.

"Were you any other person in this world, I would agree with you," Dumbledore said. "It would be impossible for a student to defeat a man of formidable talent, and advanced years, like Tom. But you are not like any other person in this world. Magic, as most understand, is an art that takes years to cultivate an understanding. Years to learn motions and technique. But _you_ , your magic is the exception. An anomaly. You understand this world, and its nature, far finer than any other person I have met. Better than Tom does _now_ \- his magic is rooted in abuse and manipulation. With this wand, that _can_ be enough."

"But _will_ it be?" Harry asked. "Tom fears you. He fears your magic. You are better than he is."

"Perhaps I was in my younger years, but I am unsure now," said Dumbledore. "There is too much we do not know. In circumstances of ignorance, I chose instead to vote for the future. _You_ are the future, I am sure of that now."

A weight came over Harry then. There, there was a critical point of choice. To disagree with Albus, to place the weight upon other shoulders so as to lighten the load, to run from the responsibility and into the safety of childhood. Or, to wear that weight like a badge of honour upon his chest, to take the weight and to push forward into manhood.

And, his shoulders were strong enough to bear the load.

Harry reached out, and took the wand into his grasp. And, just as the Elder wood met his palms, warmth spread through him, just as it did the first time. The tips of his fingers grazed against the elder berries carved into the wood, a familiar touch.

Harry looked up at Albus, himself holding a proud smile upon his face. "I suppose we must move forward now, with the future. With Tom."

"That can wait a day, Harry," Albus said, rising from the seat, and so Harry did the same. "Allow yourself time to understand what has happened today."

Harry did not need time for that. He knew perfectly well. But he did not disagree - truly, the morning had drained him.

Albus lead him to the door, physically opening the door for Harry to pass.

Harry stopped in the doorway and looked up at Albus then. As he did, the Headmaster no longer appeared as tall as he once might have. As they shared a look, Harry could see then that their eyes were level with one-another.

Harry grasped Albus' shoulder, a sharp nod as he did. Albus mirrored his action, their eyes never leaving one-another as they stood.

And, as Harry left, he would not forget the look within Dumbledore's blue eyes. He could not shake the image of Dumbledore's eyes within his mind, because he simply did not recognise it.

Despite their lengthy conversation, there was still no movement around the castle then, a testament to how early in the day it still was. It was a Saturday too, so not even the moans of Argus Filch or the scuffling of Mrs Norris could be heard.

And, by the time Harry reached Fleur's carriage, he realised just what Dumbledore's expression told.

It was respect.

It was respect, but much more than that, it was _admiration_. There was a shift, in that moment, as before they were not equals. But then, as Harry walked from the office with the Elder Wand in hand, they were.

Fleur had gotten back to sleep in the time apart, with soft, gentle snoring escaping her mouth as she sank into her pillows. Her peace was broken as Harry closed the door behind him, sitting upon the edge of the bed.

Fleur sat up. "Is everything okay, 'Arry?" she asked, with a yawn. "Did your talk go well?"

"More of an argument than a talk, in the end." Harry said, with a rueful smile.

Fleur moved so that she sat behind him, her chin on his shoulder and her arms holding him. "I'm sorry."

Harry ran a hand over hers. "It was a good argument, I think," Harry said. "A necessary one."

"What was it that you argued about?" Fleur asked.

Harry thought for a moment, before turning in her arms so that he could look at her. "Worthiness, I suppose," he said. "We believed that different people were more worthy than the other."

Fleur frowned. "I do not think such a thing matters," she said. "Such are things are theoretical, are they not?" Harry nodded. "Then you are talking of potential - potential is useless unless its fulfilled. So, what really matters is not who has the greatest _potential_ , but the one who is the most likely to act greatly."

Harry smiled. "I wish you had been there," he said. "You'd have saved us a lot of time."

Fleur grinned, her cheeks dimpling. "There's no use in wasting any more time, then," she said. "Come back to bed - it is still much too early to be talking."

* * *

Harry and Fleur were woken up not long after by the untimely appearance of Gabrielle, the young Delacour filled with an exuberance that far outweighed anything that either Harry or Fleur could match.

Harry blinked his eyes open to Fleur shooing her sister out of the room with promises of soon-to-be activity, the world bleary and foggy. Gabrielle left the room, though through the adjoining walls Harry could hear that she was not stilled.

"Can we go into the village today?" Fleur asked, turning back to Harry.

Harry thought for a moment, his mind taking a moment to process words. "I think so, yeah," he said, amidst yawns. "It'll be quiet today too 'cause there's a Quidditch match on."

Fleur's eyes brightened. "Great."

They dressed quickly, a feat made easy for Harry as Fleur had taken to stealing his jackets and shirts. Even that day, she wore one of his flannel shirts, earning a quizzical look from Harry.

"Your clothes are more comfortable than mine." Fleur explained.

"I'll take your word for it." Harry replied.

Gabrielle, it seemed, could not hold in her excitement and barged into their room not long after, dancing about the place. Harry and Fleur couldn't help but smile, even though their eyes struggled to keep open.

As Harry predicted, the path to Hogsmeade was largely unpopulated. There were odd pockets of sixth and seventh years, grown tired of Quidditch and interested in the pursuits that the multitude of pubs that the village offered. Harry found the eldest students rarely to be the most intruding, they themselves too engrossed in their own lives to bother to think to greatly upon the life of a fourth year such as himself.

Dimly, Harry realised that he wasn't given permission from Dumbledore to be in Hogsmeade, though by good fortune, Filch was absent from his usual outpost, no-doubt cleaning the Quidditch equipment as such heavily enchanted material could not be cleaned by magical methods.

Fleur and Gabrielle talked a rapid stream of French as they walked. To begin, to not understand what was being discussed was somewhat disconcerting to Harry, though as time went on, he found comfort in Fleur's voice in her natural tongue. In truth, he wished that he could learn the language faster, if only to fully appreciate it.

"Can I ask something of you?" Fleur asked, after a time, her tone apologetic. Harry nodded. "Gabby wants to go shopping and-"

Harry understood immediately. It was _their_ thing _._ "I'm sure I can entertain myself elsewhere," he said. "I'm sure the stationary shop is open today."

Fleur placed a lingering kiss upon his cheek. "Thank you," she said. "Shall we meet in a few hours?"

Harry nodded, and he, Fleur and Gabrielle went their separate ways. Harry then truly at a loss for what to do, though as with most occasions when he was in such a mindset, he found himself thinking upon magic once more.

With Spring finally born into the world, nature and colour came into the lands once more and Harry was far happier in seeing it. The leaves of the trees had began to grow from the bare branches, the flower beds budding and beginning to poke through the earth and into the light of the sun.

For a moment, Harry grew curious of the land and its growth. Within the Northern Magics, there was the magic of flame, and water and air, but little was said of earth. Of the quiet strength of the world beneath himself, constantly impacted and yet never faltering. Soil, the home of the life that grows, strong and yet so full of life.

In Harry's efforts with Helian Magic, he had not yet come across any spell-craft that concerned the earth. But, as the world began its cycle of rebirth before his very eyes, possible only by the greatness of the land beneath his feet, the spark of an idea came to him then.

The nature of land was strength. Immovable strength. Land began as lava, cooling and stiffening, to then become the stage on which all of humanity played upon. Miles of land sat beneath the ground where Harry stood, untouched by the years, so thick and so deep that a man could work for a thousand days and not chip away any meaningful amount of it.

The tectonic plates moved beneath the Earth too, crashing into each other so powerfully that as they meet, _mountains_ formed, and as they broke apart, _volcanoes_ birthed the earth anew. The magnitude of such power was unfathomable, their forceful existence so much grander than that of a person that Harry could not help but be humbled as he thought of them.

Perhaps, Harry thought, _he_ could harness the Earth's nature. He could call the land from the ground, forcing the land against itself until it rose into the sky. Or, he could rupture a hole through the earth, waves of power coursing through the rocks until chasms grew and the earth _quaked_.

But first, Harry thought of the earth as he could see it then. He knelt to the ground, burying his hand into the soil of the flower bed beside him. In its state then, it felt valueless. It ran through his hands and back to the ground easily, dampened by the rain and without strength or use. But, he knew, as he could see in the budding flowers, that within it, there held all that Flora needed to grow.

Harry placed his hand then upon the lawn in the park in Hogsmeade, the land firm beneath the grass. And, just then, he could sense the silent strength of the soil, compacted and unbreakable. Beneath the turf, he knew that this strength only grow, for _mountains_ were born in these lands - the Scottish Highlands. These mountains stood, alone, unmoved by the wind and unchangeable. Even as the pressure of the Earth's tectonic plates grew, they did not break - they _grew_.

"Harry - what are you doing?" Tonks asked, from behind him.

Harry shot up from the ground, immediately realising how ridiculous he must've appeared from the outside, blindly touching the ground. "Stuff."

"What kinda 'stuff'?" Tonks asked, quirking a then-lavender eyebrow.

"Magic stuff."

"You've gotten pretty weird recently," Tonks said, before grinning. "I like it."

Harry grinned too, walking over to Tonks and leaving his burgeoning thoughts at the back of his mind, ready to grow at a later date. "You're still working in Hogsmeade?"

Tonks sighed. "Yeah, though not for much longer," she said. "With the tournament almost over and nothing happening yet, the Ministry thinks an auror isn't needed here."

"You must be happy about that, right?" Harry asked, as they walked through the streets. It was almost empty, and so the Hogsmeade locals had not fled the village, walking from shop to shop, with the occasional person waving hello to Harry and Tonks.

"Sort of," Tonks replied. "I mean, I've got a lot more work to do back at the department these days, so I might be able to actually finish that. But, just because nothing _has_ happened doesn't mean nothing is _going_ to happen."

"Especially with what happened to Barty Crouch."

"How'd you find out about that?"

"I was talking to Dumbledore and Fudge came through the fire and told him," Harry told her, a hand pushing through his hair. "Do you think he was killed?"

"Well, word in the department is that it was suicide, though that might just be because Dawlish wants the job and he doesn't want any paperwork getting in the way of writing his job application," Tonks said, before rolling her eyes. "Thank Merlin I'm working with Shacklebolt now."

"You got promoted?" Harry asked, joyful. "Congratulations!"

Tonks smiled brightly, her hair flashing bright red for a moment. "Yeah, about two weeks ago," she said. "I'm actually assigned cases now, and people know my name. It's great."

"How's your new boss?" Harry asked. He tilted his head toward the Hog's Head, as to ask if Tonks wanted to go in. She nodded, and the pair entered the pub.

"He's a top bloke," Tonks said, in-between gesturing to the barman, a broad-shouldered, grey-bearded man, for two butterbeers. "He's a good laugh off the job, but there's no-one better at what he does. He's a shoe-in for Head Auror when Scrimgeour moves up."

Harry and Tonks sat down at one of the many empty tables of the pub, the establishment unpopular with visiting students, especially on that day. The pub was rustic, Harry noticed, though it was not uncomfortable, the fireplace keeping the inn homely. As he sat, Harry realised that he had forgotten his wand-holster, his wand in his front pocket, and rather than damage the wand, he placed it upon the table.

There was something familiar in the ethos of the Hog's Head. A close resemblance to a place Harry had known before. He could not place what it resembled, but he knew it was something.

"That thing you did with the water was pretty cool, by the way," Tonks said, as they settled. "Reminded me of the flumes you could go on at the pool."

Harry smiled. "It's what gave me the idea," he said. They were the only bright spot on a rather unfortunate day at the Little Whinging Leisure Centre, with Dudley holding his head underwater for as long as he could, the lifeguards ignoring it entirely. "It's way easier when you use plastic."

Tonks smiled. "You looked absolutely knackered afterward," she said. "You really ought to find easier ways to do those tasks."

"And miss the fun of nearly dying?" Harry asked. " _Never_."

Tonks tapped her fingers against the wood of the table as they sat, before sitting up. "Oh! By the way," she began. "Since I'm working less in Hogsmeade, I have another day off and I was thinking - we could start going to the cinema? Make it a day out or something?"

Harry nodded immediately. "That'd be great!" he exclaimed.

"Awesome," Tonks said, with a broad grin. "There's so many films you've never seen that you _need_ to see. We need to educate you."

"You know me," Harry said, a lopsided smile on his face. "I should've been in Ravenclaw - I love education."

The barman appeared then holding their two butterbeers, the glasses dwarfed by the utter size of the man's hands. Harry was not short, but he towered over Harry, and was broader than Harry by two-fold, too.

"Here's your drinks." The Barman said, gruff, his voice coarse.

"Thank you." Harry, and Tonks, chorused.

The older man was just turning, ready to return behind the bar, when he stopped in his tracks. His face became sharp and vicious, then.

"Boy! Where did you get that wand?"

Harry looked up at the man, drawn to the man's eyes for an odd reason. They were blue, but to call them blue would be to call the Black Lake a puddle. They were _bright_ _blue_ , deep and vibrant, holding a sea of colour swirling behind his spectacles. Perhaps, in a different mood, they may have twinkled, but then, they _stormed_.

"From your brother." Harry said, stoic.

"Did you, now?" Aberforth Dumbledore asked. "For years, people called Albus the smartest wizard alive - nice to see they were wrong."

"And why's that?" Harry asked, his jaw clenched.

Aberforth shook his head. "I can tell you know what that wand is," he said. "But for Albus to give it to a _child_?"

"What's wrong?" Harry asked. "Disappointed he didn't give it to you?"

Aberforth laughed then - deep and low and cruel. "You couldn't pay me to take that wand," he said. "That wand has caused nothing but ruin for the Dumbledore family. It's time we lost it."

Harry smiled. "Then I'm glad to hold it," he said. "From a Peverell to a Peverell."

"I couldn't give a damn about any of that," Aberforth said. "I care about _her_ ," the older man pointed at a portrait of a young girl, not yet a woman, never to be a woman. "That wand ought to be lost, for her. I want nothing to do with it - I never want to _see_ it - do you understand?"

"Absolutely." Harry said.

"Tell Albus he's a fool next time you see him," Aberforth said, as he left their table. "By the looks of things, he isn't told often enough."

Harry turned back to Tonks, who sat with an expression of shock on her face, her hair white-blonde.

"What the _fuck_ was _that_?" Tonks asked.

"Stuff." Harry said, around the rim of his glass.

"What kind of stuff?" Tonks asked, _more_ confused.

"Family stuff."

Tonks paused for a moment, confusing filling her face.

Tonks shook her head. "You've gotten _really_ weird lately." she said, finally, grinning.

"It's just the life I lead, " Harry said, with a shrug. " _C'est la vie_."

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed that - let me know what you thought.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	29. Chapter 29

**Hi Everyone!**

 **So, exams are over and I'm back home from Uni, so I have a great deal more free time nowadays so chapters will return as they were before.**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this - it was a difficult chapter to write.**

 **Let me know what you though - PM's are always appreciated.**

 **Thanks!**

* * *

As Harry waited for Tonks to arrive for their day out, he held an air of anticipation.

As of late, Fleur and Gabrielle had taken more time to be together. Gabrielle was to return to her parents within the week, and so Fleur was savouring the few moments they had together. It was not a spoken thing, so much as they simply drifted away as Fleur's priorities were elsewhere. He often spent the night with her, though very little more, and she was restless as she slept, shaking Harry awake on occasion. Harry had asked Fleur about it, though she simply brushed it away.

Harry did not begrudge them such time - the opposite, in fact - though it did mean that his time was far freer than it had once been. Most of it was spent studying the Dumbledores, though he was running through their work far quicker than he had anticipated.

Tonks appeared, in fact, when Harry was most unsuspecting of her - on time. The second his watch ticked to 5 o'clock, there she was, stepping through the fire. More confusing still, despite having arrived from work, she did not wear her Auror uniform.

Instead, she wore a beautiful, white dress, the absence of bright colour bringing to fore the wonder and beauty that Tonks held in every fibre of her being, the swirling colours of her hair vibrant against the clear canvas.

Harry reddened slightly, unbeknown to him.

"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks greeted, with a smile. "You ready?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "Sure," he said. "What are we going to see?"

"Back To The Future - a classic, and the fact you haven't seen it is a travesty that we will soon rectify," Tonks said, as they began the short walk to the apparition boundary at the edge of the grounds. Tonks turned, as they left the castle, and admired the structure. "The education you are receiving with me is far more worthwhile than anything you'll get in there."

"It's quite the claim you're making there, you realise," Harry replied. "To claim that a film, however great, is better than a thousand years of collected magical knowledge."

"Three words," Tonks said, raising three fingers to the air. "Time Travelling Car."

Harry grinned. "Fair enough."

As they left the lawns outside the Hogwarts grounds and met the path that led to the apparition boundary, the sight of the Beauxbatons carriages came into view, and so too did the distant silhouette of two figures, one tall and the other small - it took no great amount of endeavour for Harry to realise that it was Fleur and Gabrielle. For a moment, Harry pondered going over there to see her, though he knew that their time together was precious, and his presence would only dilute that.

"Ready?" Tonks asked, as they crossed the boundary, though Harry's attention was still upon Fleur.

Harry jumped, just slightly, at her voice, and turned back around. "Y-yeah, of course." he said.

Tonks tilted her head as she appraised him. "Good," she said. "Because you probably ought to know that my apparation has only gotten worse since last time."

And, before Harry could even begin to worry, or shake the distant image of Fleur from his mind, Tonks took his hand and whisked them away to a new land entirely with a loud crack being the only thing left behind.

They appeared, to Harry's distaste, within absolute darkness; they were, in fact, only exempt from this when a lighter appeared in Tonks' hand.

"Tonks?"

"Yeah?"

"How badly did you apparate us this time?" Harry asked, as he inspected the darkness that surrounded the two of them.

Tonks grinned in the dim light. "For once, this was on purpose," she said, as her hand began tracing a wall.

"Well then - where, exactly, are we?" Harry asked.

The whites of Tonks teeth appeared behind her red lips. "We're in a wall." she said.

"Again, I'm finding it hard to believe this was on purpose." Harry replied.

"Patience, Harry - have a little faith," Tonks said, with a smile. "For busy places where there's not really a place for apparition, the Ministry made certain walls hollow, so that you don't have to walk for a mile to get into the centre of London."

"So we're inside an expansion charm?" Harry asked, intrigued. "They've just expanded the air between the bricks?"

"We're buggered if I know," Tonks said, as she searched in the dimness for _something_. "I can't say I paid attention when Flitwick told us in our NEWT class."

Tonks gasped then, in delight, as she found what she'd been searching for. At once, her hand disappeared through the wall she had been tracing, and with it, the rest of her arm as well.

"Follow me." she said, with a roguish tilt to her grin. And, as she grabbed his arm, Harry couldn't help but do so.

They appeared, to Harry's surprise, in the middle of a train station Harry distantly recognised as Leicester Square. Despite their emergence from nothing, they received no enormous fanfare from those that walked by - a reaction Harry realised, belatedly, was due to a muggle-repelling charm. It was a relieving sensation, for Harry, to be inescapably unnoticeable, for a time.

The streets were filled with those that had just finished work for the day; the sight, though unwelcome for Harry, was a brief one, as Tonks quickly led the two of them into a quiet building, though an unexpected one, with novelty swords and medieval regalia lining the walls, Olde English typing upon the boards behind the counter, with a full absence of electricity or modern materials. There were few patrons, though those that were there huddled in groups, their shoulders hunched over board games and hushed tones in their voices.

"It's a D&D-themed place," Tonks whispered, her tone as though she was desperate to not spoke those that occupied the area. "Wizards tend to use places like this to hang out if they're in the muggle world."

Harry nodded; they wouldn't have to alter their words to talk in such a place, and to use any evasive magics in the muggle world was dangerous, as any magic in their presence was illegal, even those that would cause misdirection or if the perpetrator was an Auror.

Tonks left then to order, returning with something not dissimilar from that which was sold in Hogsmeade; a dark, honey mead.

"So, Harry, are you prepared for the third task?" Tonks asked, as she sat, her mouth hovering around the rim of her glass.

"Not really," Harry admitted, with a shake of his head. "I've no clue what it's going to be. Dumbledore said something about bringing in landscapers, so it might be a maze or something, but that doesn't really help cos I've no idea what's going to be in there."

"If it follows the rest of the task, there's likely to be something dangerous and alive in there," Tonks said. "You ought to go see Hagrid - he could never keep his mouth shut."

Harry nodded. Care of Magical Creatures wasn't his finest subject, excluding Eikthyrnir - he rather lacked the nuance of it. Shooting lightning from the sky, while effective, was hardly intricate.

"Enough of that, though - how's work?" Harry asked.

Tonks brightened, her hair turning a shade lighter. "Great, actually!" she exclaimed. "You know my new boss, Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Harry nodded. "Well, Shack offered me a place as his apprentice. He's known for being really aggressive in his arresting, so it should be great - get to see loads of action."

"Aren't things quiet nowadays, though?" Harry asked. "Outside of that World Cup attack, there's not much going on."

Tonks shook her head, her nose wrinkling. "There's plenty going on," she said. "Every week something new comes up, it's just the Prophet covers it up 'cos people like Malfoy pay them hush money." Tonks shook her head in frustration. "It's only getting worse, too - there's something coming, I just don't know what."

Harry nodded. "At least we've got people like you protecting us, though."

"What, nineteen-year-old kids?" Tonks asked, agitated. "I'm not enough. Even Shack's not enough. We need more."

Tonks shook her head then, her hair bleeding out the colour that'd filled it as she grew agitated.

"Anyway, that's hardly a topic worthy of conversation, is it?" she asked.

"Not really," Harry agreed. "So, what's this Back to The Future about?"

* * *

On the day that Gabrielle was to leave, Harry was truly sad to see her go.

Fleur could not sleep the night before, and so, he awoke to the sound of her pacing the floor in the dim hours of the morning. Immediately, he retrieved his glasses from the bed stand, caring not for the exhaustion that his bones held, and pulled her close to him, to which she immediately melted.

His hands ran up and down her spine, a comforting rhythm that calmed the worried pounding of her gentle heart. There were no tears in her eyes, but the blue depths held a worry; sad and prolonged.

"It's going to be alright, isn't it?" Harry asked, as Fleur leaned on him.

"It might be," Fleur said, moving in his arms. "But it won't be the same. When we see each other next, I'll be studying and I will be busy. And then she'll be going off to Beauxbatons and we'll see each other even less. Then, I'll start working and perhaps we will only see one another twice a year. And then, she'll finish school and go off into the world and…and what if we just grow apart? What if there comes a point where our lives become separate?"

Harry took her at arms length, his eyes burning into hers. "Do you want that to happen?"

Fleur shook her head desperately. "Of course not!"

"Then it won't," Harry said. "We aren't victims to fate. We decide what we do. We decide our future, and if something is there that we don't want, we are allowed to change it."

Fleur was silent, in the face of Harry. Her demeanour stilled.

"I just don't know," Fleur said, after a moment. "I thought we'd be together forever, you see? I thought it would be us two, side-by-side, forever. Life just didn't seem to begin until she came into it, and now, with her leaving, it feels like life is just slipping away again. It feels like she's leaving me forever."

Fleur fell into his arms once more, and Harry knew then that no honeyed-words would remedy the hurt of Fleur then, and so his arms tried to offer the strength his mind could not, though he knew that they couldn't.

He felt incompetent. He just didn't know what to do.

A lone thought began to fill his mind, though.

Fleur had spent a great deal of time away from him, and he wondered then if it was because she did see in him the support she needed in times of trouble. Their relationship was based upon the summer of life; the good, the bright, the warm. To show him her winter - her struggle and her pain - was not what they had truly done with one-another before.

She just needed support. And he did not know how to be that, for her.

Harry wondered if he ever would.

For all of their talk at the beginning of their relationship on rushing and being careful with one-another, in the end it seemed they had done exactly the opposite. To think, they had spent so many days, sleeping side-by-side, and yet he could not even help her then, as she struggled.

He wondered if he deserved her care. Her attention. There was just so much care in her heart. And, all that he had to do then was to reassure her. To show her that it was all going to be okay. And he could not even do that - he could not be the person she needed him to be, then.

Fleur worried her lip, her legs unable to stop bouncing against the floor, her body threatening to vibrate itself apart with the frantic energy that filled it.

They stayed like that, for a time, until Gabrielle appeared. At once, warmth returned to Fleur as she clasped her eyes upon her sister, hugging her and holding her tight. Gabrielle appeared confused at the attention - in her youth, their time together was no more momentous than any of the other occasions they shared each other's company, but to Fleur it meant more than the world.

It was a beautiful sight to behold, to see such incredible love, but there was melancholy to the beauty. In Fleur's eyes, tears threatened against the clarity of her blue irises. She clenched her jaw, as if to draw strength from the structure of such an action, to be strong for her sister.

They whispered together, Fleur's voice thick with emotion, transforming in the air from a language of millions to a code between two sisters - Harry knew not to even attempt to understand what was being said, so private was their conversation.

Fleur held her sister for the precious seconds she had left with her, the struggle evident on her face. Harry knew that he should be by her side, a balm to the pain, but as he watched her, the rift only grew.

As the Delacours finally stood, a look of pained resignation marred Fleur's beautiful face as she turned to Harry.

"I am to take her to the apparition point." Fleur said.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Harry asked. In his heart, he knew the answer - it was not his place.

Fleur pursed her lips. "I would like the last few moments I have with Gabrielle to be alone," she said. "If that is okay?"

Harry smiled slightly. "Of course."

Gabrielle ran to Harry then, her arms outstretched and Harry bent down to embrace the younger girl. At once, an emotion filled him, a feeling of absolute care for this young girl, a need to protect this spirit. He longed, in that moment, that she would be okay. That time or age or the world could not change her.

He knelt, so that they were eye-to-eye. "Be good, Gabby," he said, before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "And always be yourself."

Gabrielle kissed both of his cheeks, before embracing him for a final time, after which she ran to her sister, and Fleur clinged on for dear life.

He knew then that he had not been all that Fleur needed. And, perhaps, that was always going to be the case. She was older, and wiser and more experienced with life. With Fleur, he had been desperate to not the repeat the mistakes of the past - to not show her the parts of him that still needed time to heal. But real relationships were not just the safe subjects. You did not just hide truth to make things easy.

As Fleur sat, with pain in her heart, showing him the difficult parts of her - the parts she had not already rationalised, the parts she needed help with - he realised that they, both, had sanitised themselves. And, the moment things got difficult and dirty, they did not know who they were, together, anymore.

But that's not what relationships were.

They found one-another beautiful. They had fun together. But that was shallow.

The sound of Fleur returning drew a flinch from Harry. He looked up to see her in the doorway, the tracks of her tears still on her cheeks, her eyes bloodshot, but dry. She appeared smaller then, the absence of her sister seemingly taking away a section of herself. She folded in upon herself as she stood there, forcing herself to be as small as possible.

"I think I might need to be alone, for a while." Fleur said, her voice hoarse.

In that moment, Harry felt more helpless than ever before.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, with a swallow. "I am here if you need me to be."

Fleur shook her head jerkily. "I think, perhaps, this is something that I need to understand by myself."

Harry stood, taking her hand in his. "If you ever need anything from me, I'll be there in a heartbeat."

"I know, 'Arry," Fleur said. "I know."

* * *

Over the days that passed, Harry tried to understand what it was that he needed to do, but he felt rudderless.

He had no idea of what to do. To know that Fleur was in pain, struggling and worried for the future, and he could not help, was awful. He just wished for circumstances to be different, to be the person that she could trust with what was going on, to be the person that could say or do the thing that would ease her worried soul.

Eikthyrnir was help, then, the wild soul that he was. It was his nature to lean into the instincts within him, his mind a beautiful calm set by the insistence he felt to hold his own course. It was assuring, that his thoughts had purpose, that his conflict could resolve into something useful, but after a time he felt guilty of filling his friend's mind with such worries, so empathetic was he.

And so, for want of anything better to do, he allowed other aspects of his life to consume him.

As Harry discovered, it was more difficult than he had first envisioned to learn whether or not the Helian magics could accommodate the Earth.

Firstly, despite his own human view of the truly ancient Hogwarts, the stones laid there by man's own hand did not hold the age to be of much use. In comparison to the stones laid by the Gods, they were children. Truly, despite the ubiquity of magic that filled the halls, the tiles on the ground ran only to the foundations, and no further. When his hands pressed against the stones, their strength was repressed by the wave of magic that the air held, the ever-changing residents of the castle making any connection to the archaic power he longed for impossible.

It felt, for all of his efforts, like trying to access the power of flames by standing a mile away from a fire. It was distant and so very out of his reach. The Earth was so vast, so impossibly vast, that direct connection was required to even begin to hope to fathom its potential.

He needed a place that living being's hand had not touched - a place that no man had altered. He could not ask Eikthyrnir for such a place; despite his talent for finding such places, as to find a place for an element other than his own was antithetical. He could not return to the peak from which he truly learned fire for the same reason - the scorched earth having burned away the knowledge that the soil could bring.

His efforts in learning the physical aspects prior to the spiritual had been unsuccessful. Earth was unyielding, so more reluctant to change than water could even begin to be. Water flowed, but the Earth remained stiff and unchanging, only growing, requiring great power to even begin to become ductile and bend.

With the Helian magics, they were so personal, so very idiosyncratic, that one could not rely on the knowledge of others to truly work - one had to understand. Harry had to know the power of water, its healing and its rhythm, before he could ever truly harness its formidable strength. Just so, he had to experience the birth and change of the ground below, before he could ever bring such a thing to life for himself.

He knew of similar feats to that which he was attempting. In the times before society began, there were early scriptures of man carving a path through a mountain range so as to get to the other side. Stories, of drying the Earth so that one could pass through a sea without resistance. But to know, and to understand, were eons away in the world of the Northern Magics.

And, with the more he pondered the issue at hand, he realised with growing certainty that he too was eons away from truly understanding the power of the Earth.

* * *

In a blind hope to solve the issue of the Earth magics, Harry found himself in the library.

It was a pleasant place; far more pleasant than it was ever truly given credit for. This is was no-more true than in the early spring, the weather just pleasant enough for the great majority of the school to evacuate the indoors and seek refuge outside, leaving only the dedicated and the solitary.

Despite the warmth the air finally held, the fire of the library still burned brightly, and adjacent to it, there sat Hermione. She herself was not impervious to the weather, her huge hair evidently holding a somewhat insulatory property, causing her to sweat heavily and divulge herself of her heavy jumper, though it did not detract from the concentration she held for her studies.

Harry's appearance, however, did distract her, her bushy-haired head poking up from her book the moment he entered the room, the sight of another living soul within the library a rarity in of itself. A warm smile came to Hermione's face as she saw Harry, immediately gesturing so that he may join her, just as they once did.

Harry did so, joining her, though not before a quick perusal of the Transfiguration section of the library, Madam Pince's eye never leaving him, her constant presence unaffected by the changing of the seasons. He wondered, briefly, on what was more oppressive; the warmth indoors, or her stare.

The sight of Hermione was a welcome one. Perhaps it was their extended separation, but to spend time with her, simply studying as he would often do by himself, was a far more pleasant thought than it might once have been. Though she was inquisitive, Hermione did not question the notes before him, written in Old Norse, and conversely, the thought of listening to her latest gripe with the wizarding world was not so arduous.

"How's things?" Harry asked, after a moment's ponderance over his notes.

"Good, good," she said, quickly. "I've been terribly busy with work and such, though I doubt that compares to the preparation you're doing with the Tournament."

"I wouldn't go that far," Harry said. "I imagine I'd have a harder time writing an essay about Dragons than fighting one these days."

Hermione gave him a harried smile. "Plus, with teaching Viktor English, I've had my hands full recently," she said. "I haven't managed to read much at all, so it's nice when I get the chance."

"How are things with you and Viktor?" Harry asked, absently correcting his notes.

Hermione grinned, brightly. "Wonderful," she said, her eyes a glow. "I'm going to meet his parents in a few weeks."

"Wow," Harry replied. "That's quite serious."

"Viktor is a 'quite serious' person," Hermione said. "We've actually exchanged a few letters - his father is a barrister in Bulgaria, so it was very interesting, talking about legislation and how the law differs in the different worlds."

"Sounds like you've found your place." Harry said, with a smile.

"It does, doesn't it?" Hermione smiled. "I'm hopefully going to spend a month or so with him over the summer, before the Quidditch season starts."

"And your parents are okay with that?"

Hermione's face fell. "I told them it was going to a camp for excelling students," she said. "They wouldn't understand."

"Do they not like that you're a witch, then?" Harry asked, quietly.

"It's not that they don't _like_ it, per se, it's that they just don't really get our world, or even try to," Hermione explained. "We've been growing apart for a year or so, now. I suppose this is just another symptom of that."

"Are you okay with that?" Harry asked, as he watched his friend's face.

"I can't really change it, so I've just gotten used to it - obviously I'd like it if they tried a little more, but I can't force them," Hermione said. "It just taught me that you have to change things in your life that you can, and live with the things you can't. Viktor was very good to me, too - it's odd, really, how just being with him can make things feel so much lighter."

"Really?"

"Before, if I was worried about something, I'd just let the thought of it roll around in my head until it broke me," Hermione told Harry, his book off the desk then. "But Viktor just knows how to stop me doing that."

"He just knows?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not at all," she said. "At first, he didn't have a clue, but after watching me worrying myself stiff, he managed to get me to talk about what was bothering me and after we started talking, everything became easier."

"He makes you happy, then?" Harry asked, his voice soft.

Hermione sighed, almost-dreamily. "Very," she said, before righting herself. "But that's not everything he does. When I'm just not happy, say when I'm worried or stressed or anxious, he does everything he can to make it so that I'm not."

The thought was a painful one, and so Harry buried his eyes into his textbook, the words in Old Norse thankfully so very different to the ones that held his mind.

"I must say, I'm glad you've moved on from that Auror you liked." Hermione said, after a moment's silence.

"Really?" Harry questioned, surprised. "Why's that?"

Hermione grimaced. "It's just not fun to watch someone you are friends with hurt themselves," she said. "I know you adored her, but it wasn't fun watching someone love someone who doesn't love them back."

Her words jolted Harry. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Hermione's eyes were soft as they turned to Harry. "When I would see you at the Ball, your eyes would fall on her and you looked at her like she was the world - and she didn't look at you the same way," she said. "I'm - I'm just glad you're happier, now."

"I just wish you'd have told me earlier," Harry muttered, slightly bitterly. "It would've saved a fair bit of pain."

"As I said before; some things you can't change. I don't think my words would've changed much, really." she said.

"I suppose there's just some things you have to learn for yourself," Harry said, his voice unsure. "In any case, I'm glad it's in the past."

In his head, though, his mind was reeling. Of conversations with Fleur, of her assurances, her assuredness.

* * *

For a time, Harry did little else but retreat into his own room, for the presence of strangers would serve him ill. His mind was no clearer through time spent thinking alone, though.

Why on earth would Fleur lead him so wrongly? Why was she so insistent that he tell Tonks how he felt? She knew that he would just get hurt. Did she want him to get hurt?

He did not know, and he could not bring himself to talk to her - she was in pain, then, and to bring more tension into her life was just unkind. He knew her to be good, and kind - he trusted that she had his best interest in hand - he was no doubt being overly-anxious.

The problem with anxiety, however, was that it did not matter if the cause was good or not. Logic played very little part in it - it was how you _felt_ , not how you thought. And so, he could not shake the worry.

In his room, the once-calming flame flickered wildly, its warmth inconsistent and ill-tempered, some times painfully hot and others irritatingly mild. His magic was no help in finding the calm that he sought, either. There was no cohesion to his mind, not as it had been at the peak, where anger was a blanket to his mind's thoughts. His thoughts were jumbled, and therefore so too was his magic.

In his frustration, he gave up the effort and instead let the fire sit as it wished, bouncing around in front of his eyes. He wanted to do something, _anything_ , to occupy his thoughts, but he could not free himself from them. He opened the Dumbledore's book, though his mind could hardly intake anything of value. The Occulemency book, a gift from Dumbledore months ago, was no use either. The study asked for a clear mind, and he was eons from that then.

He picked his wand from where it laid beside him, holding it in his hands, the warmth he felt from its touch immediate, the sensation wonderful though fleeting. He called forth sparks, yet they too were irritating - a dizzying array of primary colours.

Harry was a hair's breadth from launching his greatest treasure across the room and lodging it within the gaps of the brickwork when blessedly the flames in front of him stilled, the warmth they gave levelling, the return of normalcy offering peace.

"What troubles you, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, from the doorway. Harry shook his head - for a moment, he'd thought he himself would calm the magic.

"Nothing," Harry said, allowing the fire's heat to swell over him. " _Well_ , that fire to begin with, but not anymore."

Dumbledore entered the room, his approach bringing a wave of unease in Harry. "I do doubt that, son," he said, leaning against his bedpost. "Hogwarts herself rarely calls me, yet she did here."

Harry shook his head. "The tournament," he lied. "It's all rather a lot."

"Really?" Dumbledore asked, surprised. "I had not thought that it weighed heavily upon you. It hasn't in the past."

Harry paused for a moment, the calmed air of his room filling his lungs. "It feels like it's building to something - something _big_ ," he said, rather truthfully. "The previous tasks all felt so preliminary, as though they were building to something extraordinary, the scope of which I cannot hope to comprehend."

Dumbledore's head tilted, his great beard falling to the side with it. "That is the agony of the chase, I suspect," he said. "You've worked a long while at this. To see its end would be disorientating to anyone."

Harry shook his, furiously. "It's not that at all," he said. "The actual nuts and bolts of it all feel rather meaningless now. I'm afraid there's something _greater_ than that entirely."

"Such as?"

"I don't know," Harry answered, flat. "That's the worry."

Dumbledore nodded, understanding. The Headmaster took a seat upon Harry's unmade bed. "Then, I fear I must give you some rather trite advice," he said. "If you are worried about something, and you cannot control the very thing you worry over, then to worry over it would serve you ill."

Harry smiled, sharing a look with the Headmaster.

"Your brother talked to me recently." Harry said.

Dumbledore's grey eyebrows shot up. "Really?" He queried. "It's rather rare for him to talk something without horns."

"He said that you were an idiot."

Dumbledore laughed, his body rendered eternally youthful as he did. "It's not a new thing for him to say, actually. He's been saying that for about a hundred years; I suppose it's my fault for not listening."

Harry laughed.

"It was about _this_ , actually," Harry said, after a moment, brandishing the Elder Wand. "It was more of a warning than a conversation, in truth."

Dumbledore frowned. "Ah," he said. "I had feared something like this."

"What?"

"It is a rather private family matter," Dumbledore said, taking Harry by surprise. The man had given him his family's most revered heirloom, and yet this was just too much? It was _odd_. "To put it mildly, he would sooner place that wand in the ground and wait for a tree to grow than see it ever again."

"He said as much."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, before standing suddenly. "Anyway, I must be off - I now realise something has come up."

"Oh, okay." Harry replied, fully discombobulated.

"Yes," Dumbledore said, nodding to himself. "Oh, and by the way; with whatever's really troubling you - I would seek it out. You are your father's son - you gain nothing from hiding in this room."

Dumbledore fled the room in a hurry, leaving Harry to nod to himself as he watched the Headmaster leave.

* * *

Harry allowed a few days to pass before he acted on the Headmaster's words. If he were deluded enough, he would've said it was to allow the dust to settle in his mind, so as to approach the situation logically and calmly. He was not deluded, however, and so he knew that the cause of his waiting was just his own anxiety.

He'd taken to observing the Marauder's Map in his free moments, though very sparingly. Most often he found Fleur within her chambers, occasionally pacing the floor, his watch just to check that she still was alive and okay. His eyes rarely lingered, though; it felt as though he was intruding upon someone if he stayed too long.

Just the thought of approaching Fleur had filled him with an odd contrast of feeling. In one sense, he felt like he was floating, though not in a good way. He felt like at any point, he'd lose connection with the ground and float away, never returning to the ground. But equally, he felt as though he weighed half a tonne, and movement was an agony that his body could not handle.

But, after a while, he knew that this feeling would only be ended by Fleur, and so he brought himself to her carriage.

Fleur answered the door before he could even knock twice, the door flashing open to reveal her. In an instant, her arms were around him, dragging him into the carriage and onto her bed, so that the pair of them laid side by side, her head in the crook of his neck.

Peace flooded Harry, then. To feel the touch of Fleur's skin after days apart was glorious.

"I'm sorry, 'Arry," she said, her arms tight around him. "I should not have asked for distance. It didn't help at all."

"It's okay." Harry said, leaning into her embrace.

"It is not, I know it isn't," she said. "I pushed you away, and I really needed you then."

He squeezed her tightly.

"So, why did you do it?" Harry asked, his voice soft against her ear.

Fleur pulled away, her lips frowning as she peered up at him, abashed. "I - I just, I did _want_ to be helped, I now realise," she said. "I've been alone a long time, and when you're alone, no-one else protects you but _you_. I didn't want anyone else to help me; it just took me a while to realise that I'm not alone anymore - not if I don't want to be."

Harry held her close, the weight leaving his stomach, his feet feeling as though they had returned to more sure footing. "I'm here," he said. "If you want me to be."

Fleur pressed her lips to his cheek. "I do," she said. "In fact there's something I wanted to tell you," Fleur paused, trying to force the words through her mouth. "I-I-I," she shook her head. "Never mind."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked. "It seems important."

Fleur shook her head once more, an exasperated smile upon her face. "No, do not worry about it," she said. "There are occasions when words ought to be uttered, and I do not think this is the time for that."

"If you're sure?"

Fleur nodded against his skin. "I'm sure."

Harry settled into her embrace, the warmth of her enthralling, though an itch formed at her words. If it was not the right time for her words, perhaps it was the right time for his.

"Fleur?" Harry asked, his voice soft, almost tentative. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, _ma cherie_ ," she said, warm. "Anything."

Harry swallowed.

"Why did you tell me to tell Tonks how I felt?"

Fleur stilled, as though ice water was dropped on her head.

"B-because I could see that hiding away your feelings was only causing you pain, and I cared about you," she said. "I wanted you to be okay in the end, even if that meant pain in the meantime."

" _Oh_ ," Harry said. "But don't you think that's my choice? To decide who and what I care about?"

Fleur removed herself from his touch. "It is not in my power to force you to agree with me - even I am not that pretty," she said. "I gave you a map - you were the one that took the journey."

"But you knew, didn't you?" Harry asked, insistent. "You knew that she didn't return my feelings? You were lying before, right, when I came back from the peak?"

Fleur huffed a breath in frustration. "I did not lie, 'Arry," she said. "I said that I would not manipulate you with love, and that is true. You did not _love_ this Tonks woman - you were infatuated with her. It was unhealthy, and the sooner the grew away from it, the better you would be."

Anger flashed in Harry's green eyes for a moment. "Who are you to decide what and what isn't love?"

"Because I am a person with eyes!" Fleur exclaimed, at once. "You were obsessed with this woman. You could see nothing but her - you were _blind_ to reality!" Fleur ran a hand through her hair. "It was plain for all to see that you were too far gone for your own good, and it would've been impossible for her to return what you felt."

"So you were just happy to manipulate me, to toy with me, so that I'd end up with you?" Harry asked, irritate, standing from the bed and up on his feet. "How is this any better?"

"Because this is healthy," Fleur said, her hand reaching to touch the skin above his hip. "This is reciprocated. _This_ is love."

Harry shook his head, brushing away her hand, a hand running wildly through his hair. "So, love is one manipulating one-another so that they are we would like them to be?" he asked. "Well, forgive me if I don't hold this love so highly."

"It does not matter _how_ we end up with one-another," Fleur asserted. "Only that we are."

"So, this is something I would have to worry about all the time," Harry began. "Every time you asked me to do something, or told me something, I would have to consider that you're just altering the facts so that the world becomes more favourable to you?" Harry's jaw clenched. "How am I supposed to trust you?"

"Because you know that I would be doing it for your best interests," Fleur said, trying to lean into him. "Because I care about you."

"Well, you've an interesting way of showing that."

Fleur, then, threw her hands to the sky. "What brought this on?" she asked, her voice loud and abrasive. "I imagine Tonks is trying to turn you against me - I bet she'd rather you return to her, back to being the lovesick fool you were."

"No, I managed this thought all on my own," Harry replied. "And it seems you don't trust me either, if you think I can't be out of your sight for more than minutes before I start trying to hurt you."

Fleur laughed humourlessly. "It is not that you will try to hurt me, you're a good person," she said. "It's that you're still infatuated with Tonks, and you'd do anything to get her back, even though you're supposed to be mine."

"I am not 'infatuated' with her any more," Harry said. "I'm sure of that."

" _Really_?" Fleur asked, her tone almost condescending. "So, she breaks your heart, fractures all that you know, forces you to go live in the wild, _destroys_ you," Fleur shook her head. "And you _still_ want to be close to her, to be 'friends' with her? If that is not infatuation, I do not know what is."

"Well, after today I know it wasn't her that hurt me," Harry replied, his voice spiteful, his words acid. "It was you, trying to help me."

Fleur collected her jacket, put it on and opened the door.

"It seems I was wrong about you," Fleur said. "You are still a boy, unable to understand the world - I had thought you were more."

"It seems I was wrong too," Harry said. "I thought you cared."

Fleur ran out the room, slamming the door, shaking the carriage with the force of it, leaving Harry, alone once more.

* * *

 **There it is!**

 **I hope you enjoyed that - let me know what you thought.**

 **Until next time!**


	30. Chapter 30

**I didn't expect to ever post this chapter, but here it is. I had a rare pique in interest in writing this and got the chapter finished. I hope you all enjoyed it. I have no idea if I'm going to write any more.**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Cheers.**

* * *

To chase, or not to chase: that was the choice.

As Fleur left the room so too, it seemed, did all of the oxygen. Harry's chest felt as though it was concave, his lungs flattening out like popped balloons, his mind awash with doubt then.

With Fleur, life had been easy. She made him happy. Blindly so. Was such a feeling worth throwing away over one moment of indiscretion? Did that argument need to blow up to such an extent? With Fleur, there had always been passion. Everything had moved so fast and felt so powerful. Perhaps all of their arguments would end in such a manner.

However, as Harry stood within the room he had known so well, so many words still hung in the air that floated above him. Their destination was clear, of that there was no doubt, but the journey was not over yet. They owed one another more than simply storming.

But, he knew, in the end, he had to talk to her.

She was not difficult to find, for she too was held in the trance of thought, her legs still as she stood upon the grass that surrounded the carriages of Beauxbatons, her eyes faraway as her mind raced. The Spring sunlight cracked through the clouds of the sky, the light shimmering in the strands of her hair. Among the magic of the castle and the beauty of the wild, Harry had never seen her look more beautiful, for in the morning light, she appeared as though the warmth had been given flesh.

As Harry closed the door behind him, Fleur's eyes gained focus, staring straight into his. An apology formed in her gaze.

"I've made a fool of myself before, haven't I?" asked Fleur, toeing her plimsoll into the turf.

"No more than I have." said Harry, half of his mouth quirking upward as he did.

A moment's silence passed then, no heavier than the light that ran across Fleur.

"Shall we talk this over then?" Fleur asked. "Attempt to talk like the people we really ought to be?"

Harry nodded, taking a seat upon the grass, to which Fleur quickly followed suit. In the distance, Harry could see Eikthyrnir playing on the waterfront, content in the games he played in the Great Lake.

"I'm sorry for calling you a child," Fleur said. "I didn't mean it. If anything, I've been the child."

Harry shook his head. "Oh, no, I was a child," he said. "I had a temper tantrum. There's nothing else to call it."

"I am sorry, 'Arry," continued Fleur, her voice even. "I am sorry for misleading you and I am sorry for not being honest. I had thought that sometimes truths do not need to be spoken if all they are going to do is hurt."

Harry nodded. "I understand," he said. "But, to me, there is no lie I'd rather hear than the truth. Not from anyone, and certainly not from someone who I intend to love."

Fleur nodded, her eyes dipping down to look upon the grass.

"I'm sorry for saying you didn't care," continued Harry. "I know you do."

"Too much," added Fleur, with a laugh. "I moved too fast with you because of how much I cared."

"I did, too," said Harry. "You made me happy."

"You made me happy, too," agreed Fleur. "But I fear that may be coming to an end."

Harry nodded, a sad smile on his face. "I just can't get over what you did," he said. "I'm sorry."

" _Non_ , it's okay," said Fleur, with a shake of your head. "If the first act of a relationship is one such as mine, I do doubt if the relationship was truly meant to be."

Harry laughed. "Perhaps not."

Another silence passed, though this one held the weight of the world.

"I am very sorry, ' _Arry_ ," repeated Fleur. "If I could take what I did back, I would in a heartbeat."

Harry reached over, taking her hand in his. She squeezed and so did he.

"Perhaps now, you may realise how you feel about Tonks." said Fleur, taking her hand back.

Harry fought the urge to shout. "I don't think I have any realising to do," he said. "I was infatuated with her, she did not reciprocate, and I moved on."

"Perhaps I am wrong," Fleur said. "But, for as happy as I was with you, there was never a moment where I was sure you would choose myself over her."

Harry had no answer to that.

"I do not think either of us are ready for a relationship," Fleur continued. "For you, even if you yourself do not believe it, are still in love with another, and I do not yet know when to let go of control."

"Maybe not," Harry said, tying down the words that ached to come forth, of denials and accusations. "I do still care about you, though."

"And I you," Fleur said, with a laugh. "' _Arry_ , with the exception of my sister, you are the one I care most for. Just because we are saying these words does not mean that the feelings end."

And, then it dawned on Harry. For he could not say the same.

"So, friends?" asked Harry.

"Friends, ' _Arry_." agreed Fleur, before leaning over and hugging Harry, holding him close. To be in her arms was odd then, for the comfort he oft found was still there, but the desire was not.

Harry pulled back, after a moment, and gazed upon the world once more. The sun had broken through the clouds, light filling his eyes and enchanting Hogwarts in wonder. Fog still collected at the bottom of the tops of the hills and wreathed the castle's walls, though in doing so the beauty of the world was only enhanced.

Harry looked toward Fleur, her eyes welling just slightly. For this was a farewell, but not a goodbye. Sadness permeated Harry too, for he missed the person she had been before he knew the truth.

Fleur swiped at her eyes. "Now, as your friend, I feel it my duty to tell you something," she said. "You need to gain some distance from Tonks."

"Why's that?" Harry asked, tiredly.

"You realise that you are never going to be with her, _non_?" Fleur asked, rhetorically. The words ought not to have hurt, for they were true, but they did. "If you remain by her side, you'll spend the rest of your life like a flower that's only half in the sun."

" _You realise_ , had I not met her, I would not be in the sun at all." said Harry.

"And this is to mean that you remain by her side forever?" Fleur asked. "People can be temporary; once they are not good to you, they do not need to stay."

"Well that is where we differ," said Harry, confident in his irritation. "I do not think she has stopped being good."

Fleur smiled, sad. She stood up and Harry followed suit quickly.

"Please ' _Arry_ ," pleaded Fleur. "If you don't, you may never be happy."

Harry hummed in thought, a reply not forming in his mouth. At this, Fleur nodded, leaning over to press her lips to his cheek.

"Goodbye Fleur." Harry said, instead.

Fleur sighed.

"Goodbye Harry." Fleur said, before she walked toward her room, closing the door behind her and leaving Harry behind her.

In the distance, Harry watched as Eikthyrnir ceased his playing, his great legs pounding across the waterfront as he moved to Harry's side. At once, peace flooded him once more, tension fleeing from his bones. His hand passed through the great deer's fur, and for a moment he pondered. Of how peaceful he felt with Eikthyrnir. Of how grateful he was that the deer was in his life.

Fleur was a meteor. She burned, beautifully and brightly, but briefly.

Perhaps, Harry thought, it was time to stop looking skyward, and start to the ground. With Eikthyrnir.

* * *

There was a sluggishness to the days that followed, as though the world were honey and Harry was the idle fool watching it drip out from its container. With so much of his time and effort before spent worrying over Fleur, now it seemed that he was forced to find new interests to fill his time. Ironically, the thought only worried him more. The pain he'd earned from the second task had mostly ebbed away, leaving him only with soreness as he woke, though even that was enough to dissuade him from moving about meaningfully.

Moreover, it was foolish to say that losing his relationship with Fleur did not hurt. It did. Fleur offered him a warm balm that he treasured greatly, though it was not one that could last forever. Warmth will cool, just as cold will heat. He spent many an hour lying in his bed, his eyes fixed upon a point on the ceiling, his mind lacking in clarity, though his resolve did not waiver. He held no doubt that he'd made the correct decision.

He could not help but question her words on Tonks. The harsher parts of his mind had thought to paint it simply as her pointing him in the direction that she preferred, that she would rather be correct than be helpful. However, the gentler side had thought it simply as her seeing the events from the outside. Truthfully, he did not know whereabouts the truth of the matter laid and such a point worried him.

Why was he so ready to rush to the side of Tonks, even after all had happened? Before, he'd been so sure it was because his feelings were a former fault that he'd rectified, though he was not as sure.

He could not truly blame her for his feelings for they were his own. No matter how desperately one tried, love was not something to be forced or to be created. It formed. Tonks could no more be to blame for his love than the sun could be to blame for the weeds.

In vain, he'd tried to use this vacuity, to fill his empty mind with magic, though that only caused more distress. As ever, breaking new ground in his studies of the Helian magics was proving exponentially more difficult. Most distressing, however, was that his problem with Charms had resurfaced.

For an hour or more each day, Harry had attempted to review the year's Charms work, his own knowledge of the subject having atrophied from under-use. He knew that, in comparison to other subjects, he'd struggled and often had to work for twice as long to be half as successful. To begin with, he'd thought that his lack of ability had just been symptomatic of a lack of such effort, though now he was not so sure.

With the Elder Wand, magic felt natural in a manner that it had not done before, as though it was not simply that he was a practitioner of magic, but a _being_ of magic. However, Charms did not hold such a distinction. To begin, it had made sense, as though it were Mathematics or History. He had revelled in such sense. Now, to find logic and order in magic was foreign and wrong, for magic was not ordered.

One could be correct in their use of Charms. To use the branch of magic _correctly_ required it. One could not be _correct_ in the use of transformative magics, for there was no right way in breathing life or in forming the sky. It was creation. To find fault in creation was to find fault in the soul or in the spirit.

That, however, was a difficult realisation to fall upon. To reject an entire subject of study simply because of such a thought was as ridiculous as throwing away the Helian Magics for being unruly or Potions for being so time consuming. Not to mention that he was intending upon gaining at least an OWL in it in the near future.

However, the near future was not so near as to force his hand and so Harry had instead decided on a more literary approach with the Helian Magics. Mythology had always fascinated him and one of the more brilliant things about Magic being a real and true force in the world was that half of it seemed to be true. And, in the case of the Northern Magics, it was always more than half.

It began as no more than a re-introduction into the mythology of his own companion. These days, as Harry watched his friend bend water and bring ice into the world at whim, he knew not whether his friend was merely a brilliant coincidence, or something altogether different. On many a day, he'd found the deer grazing upon the trees that surrounded Hogwarts, much alike his mythological namesake, though that was hardly a trait unique to such a being.

The mythological deer had sort to graze upon the leaves of the world tree Yggdrasil and from his horns the rivers of the world ran. Harry did not know if Eikthyrnir, having been moved from his perch upon the legendary tree, had taken to eating slightly smaller _genus_ '. It was rather difficult in testing his suspicion, too, for the leaves of such a tree were in Valhalla and that was not a journey taken lightly.

Despite this, what had truly caught his eye was in fact the tree itself. Yggdrasil. The thought of a tree so ancient, its roots so enshrined within existence that they held up the universe and infinity. Truly, Harry knew that his faults within the more earthen aspects of the Helian magics had been due to a misunderstanding of time and infinity, of age and decay, of strength and immovability. One such tree would overcome such a fault.

The application of such a concept however was where he found issue. Yggdrasil, being so central to their very belief system, was deemed much too great for a mortal's magic to harness. Moreover, with it's connection to the Gods and especially Odin himself, many feared that to inspire Yggdrasil's image would be to incur the wrath of the God of war.

Odin and the world tree were tied much too closely for their fears to be unjustified, too. The story of the runes, of when Odin hung himself upon the branches of the tree in order to gain such insight, were hard to ignore. It was a long held notion that sacrifice was necessary in runic magics and to turn the eye of a being that died to gain such power was not an action that Harry took lightly.

The Elder Futhark, the oldest and most magically potent of the runic languages, was one that had fallen out of favour in recent centuries, much in the same way that the Helian Magics had. Because of their supposedly Godly birth, most thought it wise to not carve them lightly or indeed to carve them at all. The Roman system, born out of pure symbolism rather than language, was preferred, for it was much more malleable. In the modern day, with runes being used in protection systems for castles or homes or any number of small applications, versatility was most sought after.

The Elder Futhark, however, was very specific. One could no sooner bend it's meaning than you could bend the light of the sun. Their use was for strong action and required a strong resolve. Many died before ever seeing the fruits of their own labours. Many others died _due_ to them.

Nonetheless, it seemed that for progression, Harry required sacrifice. Of what though, he was not sure.

* * *

Oddly, the first person to break into Harry's tomb of study was Cedric Diggory. And, all the more oddly enough, so distracted was Harry by the mess of his mind, that the usual ebb of anger that the boy's face brought from him was not there.

His knock upon Harry's door was quiet, his hands barely grazing the dark wood as he asked for entrance. Harry's acceptance, distracted yet sure, brought a slight opening of the door, his body slowly squeezing into the room through the shallow gap.

Harry's eyes flicked downward, their focus before having been at the ceiling. Though anger did not greet him, irritation did, his mouth eased its way into a frown.

"I'm aware that no part of you wishes for my company," Cedric began, his tall frame shaped into itself, as though he suddenly wished to be half of his height. It struck Harry odd, for a boy as assured has he was, to be so unsure then. "But I had hoped that perhaps, given time, you may find it within yourself to hear my side."

Harry paused, his body still, as he allowed Cedric's words to drift toward him.

"I don't really need to have a conversation with you right now." he said, hoping that would remove the other boy from his sight.

" _Please?_ " Cedric asked, a lowliness in his tone that Harry struggled, despite himself, to ignore.

Harry nodded, after a moment. "Right," he said, his voice toneless. "Though I fail to see why on Earth that would change how I feel."

The barest hint of a smile graced Cedric's face. "I understand," he said. Harry doubted that to be the case. If he understood, Harry doubted he'd be there. "Though I hope, perhaps, you might be able to see the intent, rather than the action, at least in this case."

"I believe I understand the intent, Cedric," Harry replied. "You were afraid and so you chose to remedy that fear with knowledge. It is a smart decision."

Cedric's smile became a grimace. "I suppose you do, then," he said. "Just - I was not at my best then, alright?" his body began to move with anxious energy. "I had the entire school expecting me to succeed and everyone expected me to do so well - I didn't know what else to do."

"I understand that, too," Harry said. "I shared a room with Neville Longbottom for three years; I'm more than aware of what expectation can do to your thought process."

Cedric paused then, his face moving in discomfort, for the words did not seem to come.

"What I'm not sure I understand is why you're here," Harry continued. "I've thought of this for a while, actually. What is it you want from this?" Harry stood from his seat and turned his back to Cedric, fiddling with the blinds that rest against his window. "Do you just want to be forgiven?"

Cedric nodded carefully. "I suppose so, yeah."

"Then I forgive you." Harry said, immediately, as he brought the blind down.

"But you still seem annoyed." Cedric said, confusion in his voice.

"Just because I forgive you doesn't mean that I'm going to like you, you know," Harry said. "Is that what you want? For me to like you so you don't feel bad?" Harry returned to face Cedric. "Because I don't think I'm going to change my feelings just to appease you."

Cedric face turned serious. "I don't expect you to," he said. "I just don't think you're being fair to me."

"Odd choice of words given what you did," Harry replied. "Fairness, that is."

Cedric shook away the slight. "What did you honestly expect me to do?" he asked. "You yourself said that you understood why I went with Hagrid in the first place. You didn't hold it against the other two - you go out with someone who did _exactly_ the same thing, for Merlin's sake."

Harry didn't see it fit to correct him.

"They didn't owe me any loyalty," Harry said, though he knew it to be a weak remark. "I would've thought a man so proud of being a Hufflepuff might hold himself to that."

"So you thought I ought to have clued you in?" Cedric asked, rhetorically. "And when exactly would I've done that?" his cheeks flushed. "If I'd have told you while you were in the infirmary, I'd risk everyone finding out about what I'd done and who knows what would have happened. And it's not like you're the most public person, either."

Harry deflated.

"I suppose I expected some part of this tournament to be at least a little bit fair to me." he said, with a sigh. Harry was annoyed, then. For all of his anger had been misguided. Again.

Cedric's eyes held sympathy, his body itching to reach over and offer a comforting gesture to Harry. "I'm sorry that no part of it has," he said. "And I'm especially sorry that I've only made life more difficult for you."

Harry nodded, tired. He did not need yet another fault of his demonstrated before his eyes so soon. "It's not your fault." he said, quietly, irritated for not realising that sooner.

Cedric shook his head. "That doesn't matter," he said, firm. "What matters is that I have not made matters any better and that is what I owe you."

"No-one owes me anything," Harry said, defensive. "Certainly not you - you already have enough on your plate without worrying about me."

Cedric shook his head at Harry's words, near exasperated by them. "Could you, for a moment, stop being so selfless and let me try and help?" he asked. "I've acted wrongly toward you - I cheated, that you can't argue - so I want to make things right."

Harry sighed once more. "I'd rather you didn't," he replied. "I don't feel you need to."

"But I do," Cedric said. "Look, could you please let me try and do some good toward you? I promise that I will do my best to make it as painless as possible. If you'd prefer it, you can think of it as you doing me the favour."

Odd though it was, that did make things easier.

"If that's what you'd like, then feel free." Harry said, resigned.

Cedric grinned then, brightness upon his face for the first time that day. "Thank you, Harry, I'll make sure to give plenty of warning when I make it up." he said, before quickly leaving. Perhaps he thought it prudent to quit whilst he was ahead. In doing so though, he left Harry once more tired and alone.

Harry had the thought to return to his work, to hunch his shoulders over his desk and work his worries away. Before he did though, he walked to the closed blind and opened it anew, allowing the morning light to flood the room and bring warmth into his day anew.

* * *

Try as Harry might though, nothing seemed to work. The days became heavier and heavier. The more he looked for the solution, it seemed, the more it seemed to elude him. It seemed, perhaps, that whenever his mood even slightly diminished, his ability at Charms would equally diminish. Before Tonks, they'd been poor. With Tonks in his life, they'd improved. Without Tonks and Fleur, once more did they reduce.

It seemed ridiculous at first, though after deliberation there did not seem to be any other possible reason. Or, rather, Harry himself could not comprehend one. He'd wanted to go to Dumbledore, for his insight was invaluable in these circumstances, though the man appeared to have more than enough weight on his shoulders without Harry's input.

There had been a formal inquest placed upon the death of Barty Crouch Sr and though the Headmaster's position within politics had reduced in recent times, it still seemed that his presence was still much leaned upon. Harry understood; there was nothing quite as reassuring as Dumbledore saying that everything was going to be alright, though selfishly Harry would have preferred if perhaps the Ministry gained some agency.

Nonetheless, Dumbledore appeared weary whenever he and Harry crossed paths. It was odd, Harry thought, that no one else seemed to notice; even those close to him. His surroundings seemed to be a constant pester, with no limit to the number of people that asked for help or used his time for their ends. Even on the days where his once-bright eyes were dimmed, blinking long and heavy, his hand propping his head at any chance it could.

Harry did not know why he saw it fit to allow such an event any room in his wise mind. If there was a conspiracy, such a high-profile target would likely have an equally high-profile assailant, which would make the chance of anyone seeing justice slim. Especially when one considers that Minister Fudge was, above all, danced to the tune of whoever bought his ballet shoes. The fortuitous lack of evidence didn't inspire confidence, either.

Such things did not have to matter, though. With little to worry about in the near future, Harry returned to art. The White Tower, without threat of Fleur's presence, became again a place of stillness and beauty. Art, unlike magic, did not need to be performed well to be fun. In truth, making a mockery of the beautiful Scottish wilderness that lay before him held a joy that was almost impossible to match elsewhere.

And so, that was what Harry did. Ridiculous meshes of colour, shape and tone littered the page in a manner that he'd be ashamed for any more than his two eyes to see. There was freedom there, in absent expression, for magic was so intrinsic that to be poor at it felt as though he were being inauthentic to himself. But, art was extrinsic expression and with that he could do _anything_.

It did not make the arrival of Tonks any less awkward or embarrassing.

"What are you up to, Harry?" she asked, already peering over Harry's shoulders so as to discover for herself. For a moment, Harry thought it odd that he himself was not flinching from her appearance, though it seemed that he had just grown accustomed to her. Instead, he hunched further, so as to totally cover his work from view, though he doubted he'd gotten away without her seeing anything.

"Drawing," he replied, his voice distant. "Why are you here?"

"Don't sound _too_ excited now, mate." Tonks said, sitting down beside him, nudging him slightly as she did.

"Sorry," Harry said, immediately. "Just distracted is all."

"And why's that?" Tonks asked, her voice quiet, her eyes peering out into the world.

"Eh, no reason." Harry said.

"I don't believe you," Tonks said, with a kind smile. "What's going on?" Tonks breathed deeply. "You know we can talk about anything, right? You're my best mate."

Harry mouth curved upward, though his eyes did not join in. "There's nothing to talk about, really." he said.

Tonks fidgeted. "Is this about Fleur?" she asked, quickly. "Because I know you two are going out, you know?" Tonks was in perpetual motion, near-hovering out of her seat. "I saw you two after the task and I've heard the talk around the school; it's not a big problem."

Harry laughed. "We're not together anymore."

"Oh, _Harry_."

At once, Tonks reached out and hugged him close, Harry's arms reactively wrapping themselves around her.

It was odd, that one could feel totally fine. Absolutely fine. Until the moment you weren't. And, the moment Harry laid his head upon Tonks' shoulder, he was very not fine. The weight - the inescapable weight - of his being simply fell away, the heaviness of his shoulders leaving him.

He knew it to be a good thing that they broke up. He knew it better for him to be alone. But that did not mean it _felt_ that way. Not at all.

And, just for a moment, he allowed himself to let Tonks bare the weight of him. He sank into her, allowing just for a brief moment the joy that her company had brought him before, the sheer joy of being beside her. He allowed himself to feel the way he wished to.

"Were you going to tell anyone about that?" Tonks asked, as he was held by her.

Harry shook his head. "It was in the past," he said. "Didn't seem to matter."

Tonks held him closer.

"I know it's not natural for you to talk to people; to lean on people," she said. "But that's what friends are for." Tonks' hand came up, to tussle at the too-long hair at the base of his neck. "So lean on me."

It took Harry a while to formulate anything meaningful, so lost was he in the rare peace.

"It doesn't seem right to talk about," Harry said, after a while. "We alright with each other in the end."

Tonks smiled, sympathetically. "Just because it makes sense in here," she said, her hand at his temple. "Doesn't mean it's all alright in here." Tonks' hand moved to his chest.

"I just - I know in end it all went wrong, but she still made me happy," Harry said, his voice thin in the cool air of spring. "It just makes things difficult."

Tonks rubbed his back. "I'm sorry Harry," she said. "This is the sort of thing that just takes time, but it lasts longer if you keep it to yourself."

"What should I say, though?" Harry asked. "That I'm angry at her for not being the person I thought she was? That I'm angry at myself for not realising who she was sooner? That I'm angry at myself for being stupid enough to think that she and her would ever work?"

"You can say that, yeah," Tonks said, smiling. "Because I'm here to say that you aren't stupid and you've no reason to be angry at yourself; you're human. You feel things. And, by the sounds of things, this wasn't even a mistake either, just a lesson for the future."

"But what do I do now, though?" Harry asked. "Just sit around feeling sorry for myself?" he threw his hands up in desperation. "I've tried everything that used to make me feel better and none of it seems to work."

Tonks pulled back, smiling. " _Well_ , I usually just smash shit until I get tired; have you tried that?"

"I've cast the exploding charm a few times, but I think I'm too irritated for it to be of any use." Harry said.

"See, this is where you're going wrong," Tonks said. "It's too easy to do it with magic, there's not the physical connection to fucking shit up and I think that is required."

A smile sneaked through Harry's mouth. "So what - the solution is just throw things until I get tired?"

"I'm not saying it's the _solution_ , per se, but I'm saying it doesn't hurt and it's more fun than crying by yourself," Tonks clarified. "At least in my experience."

"Well then," Harry said, standing up and putting his sketchbook into his bag. "When you put it like that, what are we waiting for?"

Tonks jumped to her feet, her hair cycling through the colour spectrum. "Now _this_ is more like it!" she exclaimed.

"I know what we're gonna break as well," Harry said, his step full of intent as they left the tower and made their way through the castle. "We're going to ruin Snape's day."

Tonks clapped then, reactively, as she grew giddy at the idea. "Yes!" she said, matching Harry's pace. "This is making me _so_ nostalgic, it's crazy."

The pair charged through the school, bidding no care to the flocks of onlookers as they passed, most holding a sense of odd respect for the boy, for they did not know enough to offer anything else.

"The problem with this, though, is how to avoid getting caught," Harry said, as they'd dropped down the stairs and into the lower portion of the castle, to where Snape dwelled. "It's not like it took the truth for him to blame for something before. I can't imagine he'd look anywhere else."

Tonks smiled. "Leave that to me," she said. "I'm an officer of the law, _remember_?"

For once, Harry thought, Ministry bias seemed to sway in the correct direction.

Happily, Snape's stores weren't guarded by a battery of protective magics as, Harry suspected, Dumbledore wouldn't have allowed the magics that Snape would likely prefer. Instead, much of the protection, considerable thought it may have been, was thwarted readily by Tonks' training.

And from there, the entirety of Snape's potion store was theirs.

They returned to the White Tower, their bounty hidden in small-appearing-pockets in Harry's backpack, the only sign of their actions the bright, stupid grins on both of their faces.

"Serves Snape right for being a dick," Tonks said, as she locked the heavy door behind them. "If everyone above me is going to block him from ever getting punished for being a mind-reading pervert, this is the least he deserves."

Harry nodded in the midst of pulling the glass vials from his bag and lining them up to throw into the wall. They didn't take any of the potions that were to be of medical use, nor the ones that required their own locking systems within his already guarded room - that seemed like asking for trouble.

"Anyway," Tonks continued, picking up the potion nearest her and raising it, as if in toast. "To happiness."

Harry mirrored her. "To happiness."

And, as it would turn out, Tonks wasn't wrong. Watching a litany of potions explode against the castle tower's ancient walls was joyous fun. The cascade of colour - with the deepest of jet blacks to the clearest of blues and white and everything in-between - was mesmerising. For a moment, Harry seriously considered it as a method of painting, so beautiful was it.

"Feel better?" Tonks asked, as they continued their assault on Snape's property.

"Much."

"Anything you feel like getting off of your chest now?"

Harry took a deep breath, wiping the sweat off of his breath with his sleeve. "I'm just confused as to why it ended up like this," he said. "I mean - she was horrible to begin with, she only changed when _confronted_ with what she'd done and still I end up trusting her."

"She is _really_ hot, Harry," Tonks said, with a laugh. "You were batting so far above your average with her. To be honest, you got off lightly with this. Most blokes lose their money or their houses to girls like that."

Harry laughed.

"Suppose I know now to listen to my gut with this sort of thing." Harry said, quietly, though he wasn't so sure. His gut had said to go for Tonks.

"And, in the end, it _has_ all worked out for the better," Tonks countered. "Because, in the end, we've improved the world dramatically," she gestured to the room. "And this wouldn't have even happened if you hadn't broken up."

* * *

After that day with Tonks, life did seem to ease, even if only in small increments. Harry's mind was clearer by the the day. His world became more fulfilling. His work progressed. Time marched on.

That didn't make Cedric Diggory's presence any more appealing, though.

The knock on the door was more conspicuous this time: louder, with more confidence. Harry knew not how a knock of a door could sound arrogant, but it did.

He opened the door, revealing the other Hogwarts champion, shrouded in the darkness that permeated the castle in the nighttime. He wore casual clothes. Or, rather, casual clothes for posh boy.

"Ready?" Cedric asked.

"Sure." Harry replied, and he followed him.

There wasn't a word spoken between them until they left the castle itself. There was no reason to be so clandestine - Cedric was immune from the curfew - but Harry had no desire to speak. As they walked, they passed others who were out beyond the curfew, though Cedric made no effort to punish them. Some even waved to Cedric as they passed by, to which Cedric offered a courteous wave back.

"Are you excited?" Cedric asked, as they made there way onto the grounds through the exit nearest the greenhouses, his voice quick from his mouth.

"Sure." Harry repeated.

Cedric nudged at his shoulder. "Don't worry, Harry," he said. "You'll have fun, I promise."

"Sure." Harry repeated again. Cedric laughed.

It didn't take long to reach their destination; a clearing, hidden from view by the Durmstrang vessel. And, by a feat of magic, it was not until they reached the clearing that they saw a bonfire, the smoke disappearing above their heads instead of flowing out into the world.

Fleur and Viktor crowded the fire, their hands busy with keeping warm. Harry eyes instinctively flicked toward her, and hers did the same, though they left each other just as quick.

A flash of worry ran through Harry, but strangely it did not stay as it was soon replaced with the thought of Tonks.

"So, what now?" Harry asked, sharply, as he sat down, the chill of the night on the back of his neck. He caught Fleur offering a look to Cedric in his periphery that spoke much the same.

"'What now' is we're here to say sorry," Cedric said, speaking for the three of them. "Sorry for not telling you about the first task and sorry for not helping you even though it wasn't your intention to be in this in the first place."

Harry needn't look at the Fleur and Viktor to know that it was only Cedric being spoken for. They'd already said as much before.

"Thanks," Harry said, sitting up from his seat slightly. "Anything else?"

Cedric chuckled, nervous. "Harry," he said. "We - _I_ wanted this to be a little get together, for the only people who understand your situation," he scratched at the base of his neck. "Just give it a chance."

Harry sat back down, his hands buried into his pockets. One night of irritation, in return for a lifetime of freedom, he reasoned.

It was difficult not to look at Fleur, then. Not for any great desire, but simply because she was _there_ and he was _there_. Their entire situation was like a great elephant sitting on top of the pyre. He would glance at her, but felt altogether ridiculous for doing so. It wasn't as if her appearance had changed in the microseconds between such looks, after all.

Thankfully, Cedric pulled a bottle of Firewhisky from his bag, so his attention was eschewed.

"What?" Cedric asked, with a laugh, as he caught Harry's gaze. " _We're_ all legal - did you think this wasn't going to happen?"

Harry just shrugged. "Just surprised is all."

Viktor took the bottle with gusto, much to Harry's surprise. He had thought the Bulgarian, being an elite athlete, would be more cautious with his body. Fleur did too, though Harry knew her to have wine with dinner and in the evenings. Cedric himself was the largest surprise, however, for he also partook. Harry did not expect such a well-to-do boy to do so.

"Do you want some?" Cedric asked, offering it to Harry, who shook his head, memories of the first time he drank springing into his mind's eye. Fleur would be the last person he wanted to repeat such an event in front of.

Each of them took their turn breathing fire; Viktor and Cedric breathed heavily, with practised deftness, a controlled plume leaving their mouths. Fleur, in her element, manipulated the flame as Eikthyrnir would water, making it dance around her hands and circling the bonfire as the Jupiter's rings would Jupiter.

"Harry, how did you do that magic?" Viktor asked, to Harry's surprise, his lips loosened.

"In the tasks?" Harry clarified. Viktor nodded. "How do you fly like you do?"

Viktor took a moment.

"Practice." said Viktor, with clarity.

"But there must be something more to it, surely?" Cedric pestered. "Or I must've missed the lesson McGonagall gave about making the weather change."

"Not really," Harry said, with a shrug. "Just read a lot of books in my spare time, I guess."

Cedric laughed. "We must go to different Hogwarts, then, because we're not reading the same books."

"Have you read _Northern Magics: A Guide To The_ _Primitive_?" Harry asked. Cedric nodded. "Well, that one is your best starting point."

"Harry, I read it, but I didn't believe it," Cedric said. "The book said it was all myth."

"Guess the book was wrong then."

Cedric laughed incredulously. "I don't believe it," he said. "It just doesn't make sense."

"Do you need me to prove it to you?" Harry asked. "Remember the part about passive magics?"

"The one where they said that the warmth of the hearth was magical?" Cedric clarified. Harry nodded.

Harry closed his eyes, drawing the thought of the fire into his mind. It began as the physical feeling, before the tendrils of magic let themselves be known. Piece by piece, he brought the life of the fire into the world, the aura of the flame draped over the four of them, and safety brought with it.

And, when he opened his eyes, the world was cast in a warm hue. No longer did his neck feel the chill of the early spring, instead he sank easily into the soft ground, his shoulders lighter. Fleur, too, seemed thankful for the heat, comfort appearing within her. There was the barest hint of a smile upon Viktor's face, though that could easily have been the Firewhisky.

"I stand corrected." Cedric said, his face holding a quiet awe.

Worryingly, though, Cedric turned to Viktor to talk Quidditch, leaving Fleur and he together.

"You okay?" Fleur asked.

"Yeah, I'm alright," Harry replied, without thinking. "You?"

"I'm okay," Fleur said, with a small smile. "How are things?"

"Could be better," Harry said. "You?"

"Could be worse," Fleur said. Harry laughed. "It is okay if things aren't, you know."

"I know." Harry replied.

"Good," Fleur said. "It is difficult for me, too, if they aren't."

"Yeah?" Harry asked, surprised.

"I care for you a lot; for you to be gone isn't easy," Fleur explained. Their eyes met for a moment. "I've mostly looked forward to when we are both healed enough to be friends."

Harry's eyes widened. He had thought the statement an empty platitude. "Really?"

"Oui," Fleur said. She smiled. "I fear Gabrielle is too attached for anything else."

Harry smiled at her words. "I look forward to that, too."

Fleur turned back to the fire for a second, before turning back. "If there is anything you need me to hear, do not be afraid to say it," she said. "I _truly_ want you to be happy."

Harry coughed. "Thanks."

"Of course." Fleur ended, before properly turning to face the fire.

And, rather than make things easier, as Fleur had intended, her words only left Harry more unsure than ever.

"Harry, we were thinking," Cedric began, drawing Harry from pondering Fleur's intention, before taking a swig of Firewhisky. "You know you can control wind with your magic?" Harry nodded. "Could you change the air pressure around you to make you fly faster?"

Harry gave it a second's thought. "Yeah," he said. "It would be easier just increase the wind speed, though only around you and you can do that with the repulsion charm."

"It's less interesting though, isn't it?" Cedric asked. Harry smiled.

"Couldn't you just make yourself fly with what you do, anyway?" Fleur asked. "That way, you wouldn't even need a broom."

"You'd have to be a good flyer to try that, though," Cedric interjected. "How's your flying, Harry?"

"Never flown." Harry said, short.

" _What_?" Viktor asked, surprising Harry. "How?"

"Just never did it," Harry said. "Grew up muggle and the class was optional."

"Well," Viktor said, standing up. "This must change."

"Pardon?" Harry asked, with a nervous chuckle.

"I will take you flying now," Viktor said, with no room for question. " _Accio broom_."

Viktor stood and in a moment's time his hand held a broom. He walked toward Harry, his step unaffected by the Firewhisky, and grasped his shoulder with a firm hand.

"Now, I will get on the broom and so will you," he said. "Hold my shoulders tightly or you shall regret it."

Harry did just that. And, before he knew it, the ground disappeared from the beneath his feet and he became one with the _heavens_.

For a brief moment, Harry felt regret for never having done it before. That disappeared quickly for utter _wonder_ at the sensation then. Viktor, it seemed, was incapable of going slowly and so they zoomed through the sky, cleaving through the clouds and streaking through the atmosphere. Harry could not contain the joy, hollering in exultation as he shot through the world faster than he had ever done before.

To fly as masterfully as Viktor did was a treat greater than Harry could believe. He was born to be in the sky, to fly through the air faster than all but the birds. Each motion was flawless, each action efficient and each second brilliant. Harry was unable to fear falling because he held too much faith for Viktor's greatness.

For a moment, there did not seem to be a limit to life, freedom found in the winds of Scotland. Higher and higher they climbed, only to fall and swoop magnificently, cresting the water with their shoes and spiralling through the trees. It was clear to Harry then why Viktor appeared bored with the world.

It was because the world was not his home. The sky was.

Before long though, they slowed, hovering just above where Fleur and Cedric stood to watch them.

"Now, I shall jump and you shall fly alone," Viktor said. "Be careful, this is a Firebolt."

"What?" Harry asked, shouting at him, otherwise incapable of understanding what on earth was about to happen. "Aren't you worried I'll break it?"

Viktor laughed. "I am sponsored," he said. "Be careful not to let go."

With that, he jumped down and left Harry alone.

The shock that Harry felt then was inexplicable. He was in control of a broom that could go two-hundred miles an hour and he had _no_ idea what he was doing. It only got worse when he made the smallest of movements, and began climbing.

With Viktor at the helm, he'd not been afraid that he would shoot himself into the sun, incapable of stopping, but that was not the case then. Higher and higher he climbed, the thin air catching into his throat. And, when he pointed the broom downward, he fell faster than he knew it were possible for things to fall.

The night sky left him blind to his destination, though it was not long before he saw the lights at the Hogwarts dock in his vision, which would mean he was about to return to depths of the Black Lake.

And, faced with the possibility of such a fate, something _clicked_.

He pulled up just in time, his feet skimming the water once more, though he stayed at that height, flying inches away from the water. He watched as Hogwarts, illuminated by torchlight, passed by his view, the castle mesmerising in the view. Once more he shouted out, joyful, into the night.

He managed to gather his wits enough to slow down and land back near the bonfire, though he did not land easy. He hit the ground hard, landing on his side and arms, though he couldn't feel it. All he could feel was the excitement of flying. He looked up, seeing the others in various shades of excitement and laughter at the sight. Viktor had managed to catch the broom before it snapped, no doubt used to doing such a thing.

And, loathe was he to admit it, Cedric was right. He had ended up enjoying himself.

* * *

 **Thanks.**


	31. Chapter 31

**Hi all**

 **This is a slightly shorter chapter than those that I usually post. I enjoyed writing it rather a lot. Obviously, there's less content, but the content it does contain I found fun to play around with.**

 **Hope you enjoy it.**

 **Thanks**

* * *

The momentum of the year, it seemed, had finally begun to take hold and soon the days the passed at a kinder pace. Time soon swallowed the last of the frosty mornings in the early spring, leaving mornings of light rain, gentle breeze and glittering sun.

April passed quickly, May arriving in the light footfalls of Eikthyrnir, as the grass grew softer, the mud less compact with the warmer weather. Harry, in his minute wisdom, had tried to join his friend in jaunts about the grounds, though that was soon abandoned, with Harry left winded and the deer left irritated at such a slow pace.

On one such morning, with Harry desperately drawing wind into his aching chest, his body damper than the dew-covered leaves on the trees, Dumbledore spoke to Harry again. In recent times, just as the cold had disappeared from view, so too had the Headmaster. The inquest into Crouch's death had began to lose traction, with neither evidence, suspect nor witness becoming available. Harry had imagined that, with a dead end inevitable, Dumbledore's energy could've been directed elsewhere, though it appeared that the Minister thought differently.

"These early mornings are magical, Harry, though I would've thought that there were finer ways to enjoy them," said Dumbledore, as he came into Harry's sight, his back flat against the ground. "Walking is more entertaining by far."

"I suppose I know for the future," Harry said with no effort to move, content to feel the cold ground against his spine. "Eikthyrnir was restless."

Dumbledore peered into the distance, where Eikthyrnir loped about easily, before chuckling. "He is restless still, my boy," he said. "In truth, I grow restless too."

"Sir?"

"I worry about Barty's demise," Dumbledore said, his voice deliberate. "Though, I fear even the best of intentions would not solve such a problem. And it was not within his character to die in anything other than a complicated fashion."

"Did you know him well?"

"It is difficult to not know of him if you've worked as I have for as long as I have, Harry," Dumbledore said. "With his son's incarceration, and his success in spite of it."

"Do you think he might have angered someone, politically?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "The sorts of people that he fought against would not attack in the manner that occurred," he said. "It is difficult these days, with the growing unrest, to allow events to go unconnected, however."

Harry finally moved, sitting up to address the Headmaster. "Do you think Voldemort had something to do with it?"

Dumbledore hummed. "It would certainly seem so," he said. "Barty imprisoned one of Tom's finest in his own son. Perhaps Barty knew more than he should have; it was one of his many talents."

Harry sighed. "What do the rest of the Ministry think?"

Dumbledore smiled. "That I'm a mad old fool, shouting at ghosts and fighting shadows," he said. "Truthfully, with the evidence currently possessed, they have every credit to think as much."

"I believe you, Headmaster." Harry said.

"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Now, my intention in this visit was to offer some information, not simply complain to you."

Harry sat up fully then.

"There is to be a gathering; well a party, in truth," Dumbledore began, a frown appearing upon his face. "This to be for the champions, yourself obviously included, to be celebrated and to be told of what you will face in the final task."

"I see." Harry said.

"I suppose you do," Dumbledore replied, the lines of his frown falling further into his face. "Now, given your circumstance, you're to be given the choice of not attending, if that were preferable."

Harry paused for a moment, allowing the words to marinate in his mind.

"Am I supposed to tell you now?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No," he said, before a chuckle. "That's the rather luxurious aspect of absence."

Harry smiled, grateful.

"I apologise that you're placed in this position once more," Dumbledore continued. "I shall get out of your way and allow your friend to exhaust you again."

Harry stood up. "There is actually something I'd like to talk to you about," he said, before adding. "If you're not too busy."

The Headmaster smiled. "Not at all," he said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I could much use something slightly less mundane than what I'm currently occupied by, though I must ask we move to a slightly warmer location - my old bones don't take the cold as well they once did."

Harry agreed and he gave a look as to the whereabouts of Eikthyrnir, though the great beast had long since gone off to entertain himself. Harry's legs however were not so agreeable, faltering immediately as they wobbled above the grass.

"I think, perhaps, I may have a smarter method," Dumbledore said as he watched Harry struggle. He offered Harry his sleeve, to which Harry took immediately. "Much fun though it may have been to watch you struggle."

In an instant, Dumbledore moved the pair from open air to office with nary a sound and, thankfully for Harry, without exertion upon either of them.

"Now, what exactly is it that is troubling you?" Dumbledore asked, as he sank into his chair in a manner that struck Harry odd. Disconcerting even, for there was a need to the action, as if the seat were an oasis.

"It's about my magic-"

"Is it your wand?" Dumbledore asked, with a worry in his voice.

"I'm not entirely sure," Harry replied. "It's about Charms."

Dumbledore reclined in his chair slightly. "I had thought that the Elder Wand had cured you of that particular issue," he said, with pondering in his voice. "Perhaps it was simply a temporary fix to a deeper problem."

"Is that possible?"

Dumbledore smiled. "We are _of_ magic, Harry; everything is possible," he said. "Perhaps you mean are there similar cases?" Harry nodded. "Well, there are cases of people that struggle with a subject, be that from lack of effort or lack of aptitude, though I doubt you belong to either case. Would you mind a demonstration, just to clarify?"

Harry agreed, brandishing his wand. " _Wingardium Leviosa_ ," he intoned carefully, directing the spell toward a quill upon the Headmaster's desk.

Harry felt the magic move through him then, from deep within him and through his wand into the world. And, just as it had done lately, the process felt horrid, as though pinpricks were being dragged through his veins along with the blood that sustained him. And, just as he expected, the outcome was equally unfortunate.

The issue was such that his very being began to ache to even begin to raise even the light object. The magical sense, much like the eyes when staring into the Sun, burned from such use. The sensation was entirely oppositional to what Harry had felt when performing Transfiguration, where his entire body felt lightened and his being felt emboldened.

"Stop, Harry, that is enough," Dumbledore declared, in grace. "I feel I may have a hypothesis."

It took Harry several tries to understand the Headmaster's words. Dumbledore watched him with quiet concern, choosing to allow silence to grow for moments to allow Harry to recover.

"Are you familiar with the study of the long-term effects of Dark magicks?" Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded, with slight delay. "As you know, the more one uses them, the more one is likely to use them again and the more one is likely to _only_ use them."

Harry's mind finally caught up with the world around it.

"Isn't that because Dark magic ellicts addiction? And, therefore, none-use or use of other magicks causes withdrawal symptoms that are often painful?" Harry asked, rhetorically. Dumbledore nodded, nonetheless. "Are you suggesting that I'm somehow equally addicted to the Northern Magicks?"

"That was not my initial idea, though it is not impossible," Dumbledore replied, before a smile. "I believe this to be a physical manifestation of our shared, long-held idea. In truth, my idea is the opposite."

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"I recall our conversations at the very beginning of your endeavour in the Northern Magics," Dumbledore stated. "I stated then that Northern Magics sought to harness the 'Soul' of magic, of it's essence. I said then that modern magic sought submission, service from magic, rather than _life_."

"I don't understand, Sir." said Harry.

"I do not wish to hoist greatness or wonder upon you where it is not deserved, but I think I have an idea that I think bares fruit," explained Dumbledore. "Simply put I think that, just as a Dark warlock would, as you have experienced the Northern Magics, you wish to use them more, though I believe the reason to be oppositional. I think that modern magic is the force that is damaging. I believe that your being has finally experienced true magic and finds enormous distaste in returning to such a thing. And, I believe that it would be a terrible idea to enforce that you do such a thing."

Harry sat shocked as he listened to the Headmaster.

"You believe that magic, as we know it, is negative?" Harry asked, after a moment's gaping.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. "I do not think it is positive, rather than it being negative," he said, carefully. "It is the reason I rarely use spells or wand motions for that matter. I feel like we have sacrificed magical purity for ease and for most this would be a non-issue. But it is not for me. And it is not for you."

"Have you experienced this before?"

Dumbledore stood, walking over to the bookcase closest to him. "Not nearly as acutely as you have, but yes," he said, his index finger skimming the spines of the leather-bound books. "Otherwise I wouldn't go through the effort of avoiding such aids in casting spells," he settled upon a small book, much worn and easily missed. "I fear though that I do not know how to solve the problem without forcing you to give up much of the more technical and subsequently more unnatural aspects of magic."

The Headmaster thumbed through the pages of the book. Harry noted that most of the pages had the top corners folded, as though to remember.

"Do you know of anyone that might?" Harry asked, a worry beginning to form in the front of his mind.

Dumbledore smiled, though it was not a comfortable one. It was warped, sad and tragic.

"I do," he said, his eyes never leaving the book. "And, it seems that for all life has given me, it will no-doubt be forced to take in equal measure."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, the worry growing.

"There is a third person I know that experienced this issue," Dumbledore explained. "Unfortunately, that man is currently imprisoned in Nurmengard, and has been for the past fifty years."

"Grindelwald?"

"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet, his eyes still never leaving that book. "Gellert, for all of his faults, was a genius. Even his most dogmatic detractors could not dissuade themselves of that idea. He recognised the dangers of Dark magic and never fell prey to them, though now I know that was simply him not wishing for any force to hold power over him. And, as he sought great magic just as we have, when he returned to mundane magic, he noticed the very same discomfort that we have felt."

"Did he solve it?" Harry asked, leaning forward in his sight.

"Not in the time I knew him, or the time I opposed him. I suspect that may have been the reason that our duel caused so much amazement, for both of us refused to use any of the commonly known magicks due to this," Dumbledore stated. "Perhaps, in his seclusion, he has discovered a solution to the problem."

Finally, Dumbledore's eyes moved from the book and he placed it upon his desk, his blue eyes tinged with worry as they met Harry's.

"However, I think now you have to question if it is problem truly worth solving, or even putting forth the effort _to_ solve," Dumbledore said. "Tell me; what do you _want_ from magic?"

"I don't know how to answer that, Sir, other than the obvious," Harry said, after a while. "I want to live with it."

Dumbledore smiled brightly. "Now, which magicks do you feel make you feel most alive?"

"The Northern Magics."

"And, in your life, do you foresee a problem that can _only_ be solved by highly-refined Charms?" Dumbledore asked. "Because, in my life, outside of incredibly specific and personal situations, I have not regularly used charms for anything other than making my life _easier_."

"But what of the Patronus Charm, Sir?" Harry asked. "Or the Arresting Momentum Charm? Or any Charm that might save my life?"

"The latter, I feel, is easily replaced, just as many like it. It does not take a spell to slow your speed down. It takes a force and a force can be created by many modes of magic, not just Charms," Dumbledore explained, his voice taking the slow, kind tone it often took when he began to educate. "As to the former, I do not know. Truly, I don't. Have you ever attempted the Charm?"

Harry shook his head.

"Perhaps it may be an outlier in your experience; only time will tell," Dumbledore replied. "The theory is very simple and that is often the great issue people have with it. It is a pure expression of feeling. Again, perhaps, the outcome desired may be able to be achieved in another method."

"Is that even close to likely?" Harry asked.

"I do not know," Dumbledore answered, dimming Harry's eyes. "In truth, it is entirely up to you. Magic is infinte and so too is your potential. What becomes of those things is entirely your doing."

Harry smiled at the kindness. "That's not relieving," Harry said. "Especially given the result of not being able to do that is losing my soul."

"It is good that you are _you_ then," Dumbledore said, with a reassuring smile. "If it were anyone else, I would worry."

Dumbledore's hand skimmed the book once again. He cleared his throat.

"You know, this is the only thing of Gellert's that I held onto. Other than that wand, I suppose," Albus said, gesturing to the Elder Wand. "For years, I had thought it was haunting me. Perhaps now it can be of some use," he slid the book across his desk to Harry. "Though it will never be of use to me, it may be to you."

Harry let out a quiet gasp. "Are you sure of this, Headmaster?"

"No, I'm not," Albus said, his voice odd to Harry's ears. "But that does not matter, Harry. That book does greater good with you than it does with me and so you must have it."

Harry had nothing to say.

Dumbledore stood. "I don't think I'm going to learn anything new from that, but you shall," he said, as he began to walk out from his office and through the door that led to his personal rooms. "Be careful with it, though. There are dangerous ideas in there and even the finest minds get drawn in," he opened the door to his chambers. "I fear I've grown tired, Harry, so it will have to be farewell."

"Thank you." Harry said, confounded, before leaving the office, dog-eared notebook in hand.

The next few days were odd for Harry. With Dumbledore's approval, an abstinence from Charms had taken a weight from his shoulders. To know that even if you were outside of the norm and yet still be validated was a great comfort, especially when such validation came from Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore's point regarding magic's purpose weighed upon him, though. From the moment he discovered Magic was real, his ability had meant freedom. The freedom from his relatives, his lot in life. For him, magic had never become a utility. And, for Harry, he hated the idea that it would ever become so.

* * *

Upon its warmer winds, Spring too brought Tonks with it, her presence more frequent in its brighter mornings and later evenings.

Gone, then, was the weight of their encounters for Harry. In the winter, her presence had been thrilling, of course, but it was the bright spark in the dark days. Then, as they sat in the warm afternoon, the bright hues of her mingled with the light of day, her presence became comfortable and safe.

Tonks' head lolled from side to side as she spoke then, her head resting upon Harry's leg, her arms tracing fanciful drawings in the sky. "The other day, when we were at Abe's," she began, her tone as light as air. "What actually was going on?"

Harry moved his glasses from the bridge of his nose to rub there, paused in thought.

"My new wand is part of Dumbledore history," Harry said, before adding. "I don't think it is my place to say much more."

Tonks' nose wrinkled, irritated but understanding. "I do find it difficult sometimes to put the two versions of you together," she said. "You've changed so much."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when I first met you, you avoided attention like the plague," Tonks began. "Now you're in the middle of the most famous family in our world."

"I still avoid attention like the plague," Harry spoke, his eyes looking down at Tonks. "The Headmaster just enjoys making me suffer."

Tonks smiled. "Still though," she continued. "Even when Abe confronted you, you spoke clearly and you didn't stutter, and he's not the least threatening person around. It's amazing."

Harry's skin warmed, though it was not Spring to blame.

"I still get worried," Harry said. "I still don't like being around other people. It's just sometimes there's more important things to worry about."

Tonks frowned. "I don't want you anywhere near those important things," she said. "It's not your job. It's barely mine."

"After this tournament, I'll be nowhere near them," Harry said. "I can get back to happier times."

"Avoiding people?" Harry nodded.

"Exactly."

* * *

Grindelwald was an awful writer.

Harry had no doubt the man was formidable, but his grasp of the written word, he imagined, paralleled the grasp he held on his own moral compass. In his book, his mind seemed to sprawl, its path goalless and his focus ever-dimming, self-grandeur coating every word. That did not diminish the intrigue the book offered, though.

As Harry traversed the narcissism however, there were limits to be found, his grasp on truth never leaving him. He knew that no wizard could command the world alone, without support. And he knew that no wizard could manipulate magic alone, without the proper tool. For the proper tool to lie beside Harry as he read it then was equal parts odd and astounding.

Tonks' words did stick with him, then. He was just a teenager, cast in this position so central to Dumbledore's grand and illustrious life. He could not possibly understand why Dumbledore saw it fit to offer such a powerful, world-shifting power to him. Was it simply the means to Harry's problem being solved?

Harry had never felt as close to the real force of magic as he did then, with the Elder Wand in his hand, though he knew know that the wand no doubt offered that to whatever master it retained. With Grindelwald, the wand had offered him power beyond power, at the end to his own detriment. With Dumbledore, the wand had allowed him to write the world as he wished. It made Harry feel immature, then, that all the wand had given to him was simply his own core sorcery, reflected back upon him.

Nonetheless, Dumbledore did speak true in the book's contents. This was not a textbook, offered like McGonagall would in the beginnings of his first year, the first touch of magic that had captivated him so. There were no real spells to see, but rather the visceral reactions the man felt as he played with magic and its power.

Grindelwald, even as he sat, dormant, in the bowels of some long-forgotten jail, brought fear into Harry, simply for how similar he found the man to be to him. Grindelwald drew great comfort from seclusion, the rest of the world tedious to his mind's own imaginings. Until power took grip on his heart.

Harry had looked upon the Elder Wand oddly, then. The man, it seemed, had a madness that only he could conjure, but this weapon had been the catalyst in such an event. He didn't know whether or not the wand would, in time, push him to his worst.

Furthermore, they shared a fascination with the mythical, Gellert's mirroring many of his contemparies at the time, with his fascination in the occult. In his youth, he'd attempted to derive the power of Thor, drawing war and lightning into his wand, his results successful through his own ingenuity, rather than by any esoteric study. In his later years however, he'd found more folly with Freyja, the Goddess of fertility.

He'd worn her emblem upon his lapel, a warm front upon his own cold desires. He'd read of her amulet, Brinsingamen, upon which his power could live and thrive and amplify, an enchanted ornament beyond any that bore its likeness. It itself held no power, but through such an amulet, power lay at home, and without it, Freyja could not find comfort.

With that too, he'd had success, though he'd ignored such a thing in later life, when all but the Elder Wand seemed useless in comparison.

Nonetheless, the idea gave Harry pause. Perhaps, this was to be his salvation. There was no fault in magic, for magic was itself faultless, beauty infinite. However, the issue laid with his own perception of magic, or rather his perception of his own magical ability. Perhaps, through moving the media through which he interacted magic, he could find solace.

However, Harry was saved from such thoughts by Neville Longbottom, a surprise in all truth.

"Harry, mate, we've got an idea," Neville began, his tone light, his eyes hopeful.

"Who's we?"

"Gryffindor," Neville replied, his hand raise to stop Harry's response. "Now, I know you aren't massive on house pride, but most of us think it's pretty cool that one of us is basically winning the Triwizard Tournament-"

"I'm second-"

"Only because you're being cheated by the judges," Neville retorted, before pressing on. "Look, I know you're not big on Gryffindor, or parties in general, but a lot of the younger years basically worship you and it'd be nice for them if we had a party to celebrate your success."

"There is no _success_ ," Harry replied. "I haven't won anything yet, and I didn't even want to be in it in the first place."

"Harry, you killed a dragon," Neville said, his voice laced with conviction. "You're fourteen and you killed a dragon. You're gonna go down in Gryffindor history for that alone."

"There's still one task left, though," Harry interjected. "Wouldn't the celebrations make more sense to happen _after_ I make sure I don't still die."

Neville smiled. "Well we'll have one after, too," he said, as he watched Harry's face, his voice then turning more serious. "Look, Harry, I don't mean to pry, but you spend a lot of time alone, and I like to think we're mates. I just want to make sure you aren't slowly going mad up here."

Grindelwald's book loomed large in Harry's mind.

"Alright then," Harry said, to Neville's surprise. "But there's no assurance that I'll be any fun there."

"We'll see," said Neville, with a smile, before his face fell into a stoic mask. "I am sorry for what happened with Sirius."

"Right people at the wrong time, I think," Harry said, after a moment's thought. "Is he alright?"

"He's better than he was," Neville replied. "Off visiting some parts of the Black family that aren't so deeply set in hating muggles. He's with a healer a lot of the time."

"Do they help?"

"I don't know," Neville said, the confidence that he so deeply held, faltering. "Being with dementors that long does things to the soul that can't be understood. He keeps going, though, so that's something."

"Any luck in finding Pettigrew?"

"He's a rat; hiding seems to be a talent of his," Neville said, disappointed. "Sirius is hoping to get a more permanent home soon. I think after that it might make everything easier."

For Harry, it seemed, life did not seem likely to be getting easier. Sirius though, perhaps he would be so lucky. After everything, he may deserve that.

Soon, however, life would hopefully begin to de-entangle itself, for Harry. Soon, the tournament would be over, and all of the trappings it brought with it coming to an end too. With any luck, it would be Neville that was brought into the spider's web of fate and not Harry. He seemed to handle it with a degree of grace far beyond himself.

"Do you think it'll ever stop?" asked Harry, to Neville, as his thoughts began to cascade.

"What, with Sirius?"

Harry's head moved from side to side. "Sirius, the Ministry, everything," he furthered. "Do you think it will ever settle; will your life ever settle?"

"Will the world suddenly just be better?" Neville asked, to then answer. "No, I don't think so. There's always bad people, and in our world, bad people can make the world bad easily. Doesn't mean we're gonna stop trying to change that though," Neville ran a hand through his hair. "Personally, I don't think I want it to settle. I've never wanted a boring life; seems like life gave me what I wanted."

"But aren't you tired of it yet?"

Neville laughed. "Never," he said. "I don't care about prophecy, but I know what I was made to do, and I know what's right. And I'll never get tired of doing what I need to do."

With that, Neville allowed Harry has isolation, upon which Harry turned his mind anew, vigour returned as he turfed through the collection of materials he'd collated in his room over the year. Perhaps, in this den of his, he may too find such purpose.

* * *

 **There it is.**

 **Hope you enjoyed this. Let me know what you thought.**

 **Cheers.**


	32. Chapter 32

**Hi all!**

 **It's been a while, but I hope you enjoy this. Very weird to write this, after so long, but it felt pretty good.**

 **Let me know what you thought.**

 **Thanks!**

* * *

Warmth filtered through Harry's curtains with increasing intensity as the days of Spring passed, with even the Scottish highlands gaining some seldom-seen warmth, but he himself did not notice, the sole exception being that he dressed without a jumper.

Eikthyrnir, he could sense, enjoyed such warmth, though Harry had began to feel guilt over his friend. So engrossed was he by his studies that he had neglected the outside world almost entirely, his best friend included. He'd occasionally sit upon the waterfront and watch his friend dance upon the lake's surface, though in truth such occasions were short lived.

The great beast, these days, had attracted a crowd wherever it went, both human and animal alike. The attempts of some in studying him were quickly rebuked simply by his own manner. Frogs and toads flocked to his water as it ran so purely, in comparison to the rest of the lake; fish and merfolk followed his path with cautious fascination from beneath the water. Though, none of this compared to the way the bucks and does of the forest had began to watch him with unbroken awe.

The young fauns of spring, in graceful ceremony, were oft brought in front of Eikthyrnir, the wise beast's presence seen by the other deer as a blessing upon their children, their natural timidity forgotten, if only to meet this wonderful creation. And, as Harry had watched this, with his friend's antlers dancing like a jewelled crown, he did not question why.

Where Eikthyrnir's grace and purpose was so beautifully clear, Harry did feel like the fawn that were brought before him. With everything that Grindelwald had brought to the world, the chaos he wrought, for Harry he had brought clarity.

He knew that it would be difficult, but he simply could not use Charms as the rest of his peers would. It would be like asking the winter to be warm, or the days dark or the water dry. He had looked upon himself, and he knew that this ability did not exist there.

And, as he had let go of such an idea, clarity had began to return. With clarity came the Northern Magics.

There was a fluidity to their use that he'd thought on before, but had not truly cultivated. With heat and fire, he could before take in the warmth of magic's hearth and revitalise, but now, as he began to formulate a truer sense, the fire that lived within him, where once it was only his mind's meditation, grew more and more.

The fire burned in his bones and sinew, his arms energised, his mind strengthened and metal-hardened. He could carry around that very warmth he'd once conjured as if his very soul was wreathed in this glorious fire. With water, emboldened by Eikthyrnir's own grace, he too grew clearer, his own heart, once a place of worry, now became calmed.

Tonks spoke truly before. There had been a seismic shift within him, he simply needed the clarity to sense it. With this connection, this honesty he felt with his magic, just as humanity was brought into the world with fire, he too was brought into himself with it. And, just as water was our lifeblood, so too did it prove now for Harry.

The Earth, then, was to be his newest fascination. He did not truly know himself well enough to ponder its depths and its magnitude. He did not know the strength of his bones, of the age of everything that had brought him to where he was then.

The ground that he stood beneath, just as the trees that hung above him and the stars above them, where of an equal age. Each piece of the tapestry of the universe were brothers and sisters in the beginning of everything, united by time and being. The iron in his blood and the carbon in his bones were all of the same age. By the connection of life and magic, they were intertwined. Just as life and magic knitted together the molten rock that ran deep within to the blooming flowers that had began to sprout.

The Earth was alive, born just as he was, a child of the forces that were greater than any comprehension. And, that is how Harry accepted such a force into his own spirit. The Earth would outlast every fibre of him, but magic would outlast both of them. And, the fibres that brought together his being would live in the depths of the Earth, their existence tiny but still, they would live on.

That was how he began, to imagine the tiniest fibre of the ancient Earth, a long-formed and oft-forgotten stone, and to recognise its being. There was no majesty in it, no great value, and yet through the network of existence, when brought together with its peers, it could be truly formidable.

That fibre could live within the deepest ground, or within the palm of Harry's right hand, though it did not matter. If he could move one, he could move the other. And so, he did.

Harry raised his right hand, his wand held firmly within, and from the floor came a pebble-sized rock of no great notion excepting its colouring, that of a pure white.

And, not for the first time, Harry was astounded by the beauty that his life, his magical life, offered him. What he had done was not remotely difficult. Any first year could conjure a stone; it was one of the first things they were taught to do. Perhaps that was the problem, though.

Harry raised his hand again, this time with thoughts of _connectivity._ If he could move one pebble, why not two?

If not two, why not ten or twenty?

Harry closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration, and as he opened them again, a boulder had formed, floating an inch above his skin, heavy and yet weightless in the grasp of his own magic.

And that, that was the difference.

* * *

"They're arranging a party for me." said Harry, by way of greeting, as he slid into the booth, sitting across the table from Tonks.

By no conscious effort, it seemed that he and her had fallen into a routine. Unless something got in the way, they'd meet up in Hogsmeade together, Harry either arriving with his schoolmates or, if it was not a permitted weekend as it was then, by sneaking out underneath his invisibility cloak.

Tonks, it seemed, and her proclivities for rule-breaking, had finally rubbed off on him.

"And hello to you too," Tonks said, with a smile playing at her lips. "You know, most people would be excited about this."

Harry offered her a look.

"I'm well aware that you're not normal," she teased. "Might be an idea to pretend to be, though?"

"Why's that?"

"Because, if you truly hated the idea, you'd've dismissed it immediately, rather than telling me about it," replied Tonks, before she sipped her butterbeer, the foam lining her upper lip. "People that don't want to do things, don't talk about doing things. People that _don't_ want to do things, _don't_ do things. It seems to me that you want to do things."

Harry allowed himself the time it took to drink at his butterbeer to absorb her statement.

"Neville asked me to go," explained Harry.

Tonks grinned. "And you just want to do whatever you could for the beloved Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Something like that," he replied. Sirius' secrets were not his to tell, and Neville and he's…kinship was much too focused upon that to explain otherwise. "I owe him a favour is all."

"Well, if it gets you out in the real world, with real people, I'm all for it," said Tonks. Harry's eyes looked around the pub, and he noticed that he was not the only student to sneak out of the castle. There were a fair few seventh years escaping the torment of revision for a few hours, but they were not alone.

"Are you not real, Dora?" asked Harry. Tonks looked at him oddly, and he quickly realised he'd called her Dora; a name he hadn't used since December.

Tonks marched through it without a hint of awkwardness.

"Of course I'm not real, Harry. Whatever gave you the idea that I was?" Tonks asked, her voice laced in faux-grandiosity.

"You're real annoying," replied Harry, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

"Look at _you_ ," Tonks said, her arms gesturing wildly at him. "You become mates with Neville Longbottom and all of a sudden you're Billy Big Bollocks. God, if you could see yourself now."

Harry laughed, and so did Tonks.

"You are going though, aren't you?" she asked, after they'd finished. Harry nodded.

"Probably," Harry said, before laughing. "I haven't been to the dorms for ages. Might see if they look any different now."

Tonks offered him a soft look, her hair becoming a warm blonde. "You're an odd one," she said, her returning to violet. "What are the Gryffindor dorms like anyway?"

"You don't already know?" asked Harry, surprised.

"Contrary to what you might think, I didn't get around that much," replied Tonks, her words sharp though her eyes kind. "Well, that's not actually true. It tended to be a bit too dark to get a feel for the decor, if you catch my drift?"

Harry's nose scrunched in distaste.

"Don't give me that look," Tonks said, barrelling onward, grinning up at him. "I'm sure you learned all about night-time rendezvous with Fleur."

Harry suppressed a flinch at the sound of her name, his leg beginning to fidget beneath the table.

Tonks caught the movement, despite his best efforts, her hand coming to rest atop his. "Sorry, I'm a dick," she said. Harry flashed a half-smile. For a moment the colour fell from her features, her hair becoming muted and her eyes a deep grey. "This isn't much fun to talk about, is it?"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said. "But we're friends. We have to be able to talk about these sorts of things, like you said."

"I know," said Tonks, softly. She drank from her glass, offering herself a moment's composure. Harry mirrored her action. Tonks caught the eye of the barman, wordlessly asking for another round for the pair of them.

Silence hung in the air for a moment. Harry drew breath as if to speak, but Tonks began first.

"Could you not call me Dora?" she asked, worry in her throat. Harry understood immediately.

"Okay."

Silence fell upon them again, until they were served. Harry paid, offering the elderly man that brought them their drinks a thanks.

"Fleur and I never did anything," blurted Harry, his mouth working faster than his mind. He buried his face into his butterbeer, as if to cover the colour in his cheeks.

Tonks coughed. "Pardon?"

"We never, y'know, did 'it'," said Harry, though he did not understand why, or how, he was speaking. He felt as though his mouth was no longer his own. "I mean, we slept together, but we didn't _sleep together_."

"Right," said Tonks, with a swallow. A smile flashed, briefly, before confusion returned to her face. "Why?"

Tonks' eyes widened.

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want," she added, in haste.

Oddly though, Harry's mouth still did not belong to him.

"I didn't think I was ready for it," said Harry. "I really liked her, obviously, but I dunno. It didn't feel right."

"Then you're a far braver person than most," offered Tonks, softly.

"She was really nice about it," continued Harry, his eyes not meeting Tonks'. "Never pushed me into doing anything I didn't want to."

"I can't imagine it's a position she's used to being in," said Tonks, with a laugh.

Harry laughed, too. "She said as much, to be fair."

"Still," asserted Tonks, with a smile. "I'm proud of you."

Thankfully, that was the end of that. They finished their drinks quickly, leaving the pub behind.

"There's another thing I've been asked to go to, to," said Harry. "There's this party for the champions and their family."

"Bit awkward," said Tonks. Harry laughed.

"Yeah, a bit."

"Again, I'm just shocked that you're thinking of going." Tonks said, her eyes looking upward, into the blue sky above. Harry watched as her eyes matched the sky above, their colour startling.

"There won't be that many people there," explained Harry. "And it gives me an excuse to catch up with the Headmaster."

"Suit yourself," said Tonks. "Won't it be a bit difficult for you, though?"

Harry paused, for a moment.

"Just because I don't have parents, it doesn't mean that seeing other people with theirs is painful," said Harry, with a huff. "And it's not just going to be the families either. Viktor is bringing his girlfriend, and so is Cedric."

"Again, the more I learn about this, the more awkward it becomes," said Tonks. "A small gathering, which are always awkward, with everyone and their parents; awkward. Plus their girlfriends, while you're there with your ex? Triple awkward."

"If nothing else, it's bound to be fun to watch," said Harry, his eyes returning to look at Tonks. "I was wondering if you wanted to come?" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "As moral support."

Tonks laughed.

"Is it your sole intention to make this as awkward as possible for yourself?" she asked. "Do you have any idea how weird it would be if I came along?"

"Sounds fun though, doesn't it?" asked Harry. "I thought this sort of thing was right up your alley."

Tonks shook her head. "Oh, it definitely is," she said. "There's no better place to meet your best mate's ex than this. I bet Fudge is going to be there too, isn't he?"

Harry nodded, with a laugh.

"So, if anyone makes a tit of themselves, they do it in front of the Minister," Tonks said, a laugh escaping her lips. "Wonderful. Terrific."

* * *

Tonks would end up coming along though.

The gathering was held in the White Tower and the view that it offered was one of the more attractive aspects of the entire afternoon. Harry did not get much chance to see Hogwarts in the summertime and realised, as he took in the sight of its beauty, that he ought to appreciate it more.

He regretted then, that he hadn't drawn as much as he would've liked this year, especially in the recent months. Other things had obviously took priority, but art had been such a central part to his life; it was not something he'd wished to see wither away.

He chose then that, after this year ended, he'd redouble his efforts. The summer would be the perfect time.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Tonks, as she caught him looking out onto the ground. "You know if you jump, Dumbledore will just catch you and you'll still have to attend this thing, right?"

He told her of his thoughts and, for a brief moment, her hair took on a violent red.

"It was always one of the cooler things about you, to be fair," Tonks said, after her hair returned again to its light brown. "Without it, you're just a bit tragic. No offence."

"None taken."

They arrived late into the 'official' parts of the gathering; just late enough, in fact, to have skipped the speeches of Ludo Bagman and Minister Fudge, much to Harry's pleasure.

"-And Now, to discuss the final task of our champions, Professor Albus Dumbledore," finished Minister Fudge, drawing the Headmaster into the centre of the room.

"Thank you, Cornelius," he said, before turning his attention to the those before him, some twenty or so people, including the four Triwizard contenders. "Now, your final task is to be a maze. You shall go in alone, save for your wand and your wit, and your task is to gain access to the centre of the maze, where the trophy will be. The first champion to lay their hand upon the trophy will be the winner. You will encounter…obstacles in there, but it would not be a challenge if you did not," he smiled. "The best of luck to you all."

Harry caught Dumbledore's eye and the older man ushered Harry to join him. Wordlessly, Tonks left him, searching out her old head of house. Harry, privately, thought it wise, for she'd never truly forgiven him for allowing him to become a part of the tournament in the first place.

Dumbledore smiled in greeting. "Ah Harry, I must say I'm shocked that you're here," he said, with a chuckle. "I'm all the more shocked that Miss Tonks is here with you. I'd thought that you two had, to use a phrase far too modern for my own tongue, split up."

Harry offered the older man an odd look.

"We were never together," he explained. "She said that I was too young."

"That is odd," Dumbledore said. "You are one of the more elderly teenagers I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Miss Tonks, on the other hand, could live to my age and never grow out of being a child."

Harry laughed.

"I think she meant legally." he explained.

"Then I worry for the state of our auror force's education," replied Dumbledore, with a sigh. "England, much as every other country within the IWC, has a legal age of fourteen, provided their partner is under twenty-one. That is something that Professor Binns ought to have taught you that."

Harry hmm-ed thoughtfully. "Well, all the better that he leaves his post after this year."

Tonks approached him, and Dumbledore was soon whisked away by the French diplomat.

"What were you talking about?" she asked, not bothering to disguise her distaste for the Headmaster.

"Nothing important." said Harry.

Hermione caught his eye then, and it took him a moment to recognise her. Her hair was the same as it had been for the Yule Ball. Harry wondered, for a moment, as to whether or not he was supposed to dress smartly, though he found he really didn't care.

"Harry! What are you doing here?" she asked, her eyes switching between he and Tonks, before remembering herself. "That's not what I meant!" her cheeks reddened. "What I mean is, I didn't expect to see you here, or with company."

Harry turned to Tonks, who offered him a bemused look.

"I'll let you two catch up," Tonks said smiling, amused. "I think I just saw my boss and I reckon if he gets drunk he might promote me."

Harry waved her goodbye, only to be accosted immediately by Hermione.

"What's _she_ doing here?" Hermione whispered, a harried look upon her face, her eyes wide.

"We're friends," said Harry, easily. "Given we're allowed to bring people, I thought I'd be allowed to bring one."

"That's not the point, Harry," replied Hermione, her forehead scrunching in frustration. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with her, after what happened."

"What, that I liked her and she didn't like me?" Harry asked, offering Hermione a pointed look. "Yeah, I've no idea how you could ever be friends with someone after that."

Hermione sighed.

"It's hardly the same, is it?" Hermione asked, her cheeks tinted red.

"I think it's pretty similar," replied Harry. "We're friends. I didn't particularly enjoy what happened, but it was my own fault, and now that things are settled I don't see why we can't keep on being friends."

"Would you invite any other of your friends as your plus one, to an important event?" Hermione asked, her voice poignant though still quiet. "Because I don't think you would."

"I wouldn't, though that's because I don't have any other friends," said Harry. "And also, this party isn't important."

"The Minister is here!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing to the rotund figure of the leader of the land, his mouth then filled with brandy.

"A Minister who is both inept _and_ about to be overtaken this summer," replied Harry, a smile on his face at the thought. He sighed. "I really don't see this as a problem."

Hermione threw arms out in frustration. "Fine!" she said. "If you don't see the problem then neither do I. I hope you have a great afternoon with her."

Harry smiled, bemused.

"How's Viktor?" he asked, changing tact.

"He's anxious, with his father being here," she explained. Harry watched the worry bleed from her, her hands frantically smoothing the non-existent creases from her dress. "He's worried about what they might think with us being together."

"Are you worried?"

"Not really." Hermione said, though her hands did not still.

Soon, Viktor swept her away, his only interaction with Harry a nod in greeting that Harry returned. Harry liked Viktor and, from Hermione's melting to his side, so she still did too. Harry quickly let them be, finding Tonks in animated conversation with the only other person wearing an auror's uniform.

Tonks' eyes widened, her hair almost glowing in its redness, dragging Harry toward her by his shoulder. "Harry!" she exclaimed, rather oddly. "This is Head Auror Scrimgeour."

Harry turned to face her boss, finding his stature to not greatly exceed his own. He was neither tall nor broad, though his hair was long and his beard was too, though not unkempt in style. He was ordered and measured in appearance, his face thin, his lips pressed thinner.

"Mr Potter, is it?" he asked, his voice neither soft nor harsh. "Congratulations on your efforts. I'm sure, in the future, our ranks will no doubt have a place for someone of your aptitude."

The auror then left the two of them.

Tonks grasped his arm once more. " _Thank you_ for getting me out of that," she said, with a sigh, her hair returning to a more ordered fashion. "Do you ever have a conversation with someone where you can feel yourself acting like a tit, but you just can't seem to stop yourself?" she ran a hand through her hair, in a manner not unlike Harry imagined he would. "Like it's almost an out of body experience. You just can't stop yourself."

"That bad?"

"Put it this way," she began, walking the pair of them over to get a drink. "I'm never getting promoted for as long as he's alive. He might even stick around as a ghost, just to make sure I never become a Senior Auror."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad," Harry soothed, grateful then that she was there. With Tonks, she seemed to suck so much of the oxygen from the room, so it was impossible for anything else to notice anything other than her.

The problem, then, was that Fleur walked in at that moment, and he felt like he was suffocating.

She was alone, no doubt waiting for her family to arrive. Harry looked around, searching for a glimpse of the silver hair of her sister, but she was not there. In the interim, however, Fleur had found him, and by proxy, the then-ruby-coloured hair of Tonks, whom stood stock still beside him.

"Oh fuck," she said, simply, before Fleur came toward them.

Fleur wrapped her arms around Harry, which Harry returned, albeit slowly. She never looked at him while they greeted one another.

"'Arry," she said, her voice taken by a very unfamiliar tone to Harry's ears. "I did not expect to see you here."

"I just wanted to find out about the task at the same time as the rest of you for a change," Harry joked, though neither of the two laughed, nor noticed him at all. He coughed, awkward.

"You should introduce me to your friend, 'Arry," spoke Fleur.

"I thought you'd already met, but okay," he said, his hand running through his hair. "Fleur, this is Tonks. Tonks, this is-"

"Fleur, yes," said Tonks, quickly.

"You are his _date_ for the evening, I presume?" Fleur asked, her face free of emotion though her voice thick with it. "Or is he your carer?" she smiled, beatifically. "I only ask as, in France, ones as old as you aren't allowed out without a kind, young man to take care of them."

Tonks bristled beside him. Harry wished, dearly, to sink into the floor. He'd hoped Fleur would simply ignore them.

Tonks quickly wrapped her arm around his shoulder. "It's just so nice to find a younger man that understands you, isn't it?" she asked, tucking her body against him, much to Fleur's ire.

"I would be careful," warned Fleur. "I'm sure if an Auror saw you as you are, you would quickly find yourself in Azkaban."

Tonks huffed. "Oh, get over yourself!" she exclaimed, forgetting where they were. "We are friends. That's it."

Fleur rolled her eyes, before turning to Harry for the first time. "You know, Harry, I wish I had _friends_ like you. Truly, I wish I was as close to my _friends_ as you are to yours," she began, raising her arms, as if to take in the sight of the two of them. "I've never seen a pair of best friends like you two."

"How've you been, Fleur?" Harry asked, instead of responding.

"I am wonderful, 'Arry. Simply wonderful," she said, her voice high. "Only made better by seeing my ex-boyfriend, with the one who is the cause for him being so."

"I didn't break up the two of you," interrupted Tonks, her voice unsteady. "If you're relationship was so great, it wouldn't have been broken up by Harry being friends with me."

"Harry being _friends_ with you was not the issue. Harry could've been friends with anyone in the world and he and I would still sleep in the same bed," Fleur said. She drew a breath, to steady herself. "It is that he was, and is, and no doubt always will be, in love with you. And I pity him, because he will no doubt live the rest of his life sad, only because you are too stupid to release it."

Harry could not breathe.

Fleur walked away then, out of the tower and down its steps. Oddly though, Tonks followed her out. And, even more oddly, so did Harry.

"Come back here!" called out Tonks, her hair wild, flowing as though it were being whipped by an unseen wind, her voice wobbly.

"Why did you follow me?" Fleur asked, her blue eyes ringed in red. "Did you not already hurt me enough in coming here?"

" _I_ hurt you?" asked Tonks, throwing her arms into the air. "You screamed at me, just for being friends with someone and for them inviting me here. How have I hurt you?"

"Because you, without trying, earned love from Harry that I could never even begin to get," spoke Fleur, her words heavy in her throat. "He looks at you as though you are the world. Even now, he looks at you in a way that he would never look at me."

"That isn't true," said Harry, though he could hardly recognise his own voice.

"It is, 'Arry, it is," insisted Fleur. "And I feel sorry for you, because your heart has chosen an awful person to love, as she will never love you as much as you love her. And you will spend your entire life searching for reasons to leave anyone you might love, as they can never be your beloved Tonks."

Harry knew what she said to be true. He'd said as much himself, before.

That did not mean that it did not hurt. Even then.

Harry looked toward Tonks, a question in her eyes.

" _Please_ , tell her," said Tonks. "Tell her that this is not true. Tell her that we're friends. Tell her that she is wrong. Tell her that you don't love me that way."

"We're friends, Fleur," Harry said, his eyes aimed at the floor. "That's it."

"Now Harry," began Fleur. "Can you look Tonks into her eyes, and tell her, honestly, that you do not love her?"

Harry paused for a moment.

He'd imagined, after the winter, that how he felt for Tonks would disappear. He'd told himself half a thousand times that he did _not_ love her, and he'd almost began to believe himself.

But, as he looked at her then, he realised that he'd been lying to himself. He knew that, in his heart of hearts, nothing had changed. He felt the exact same way that he'd done on the night of Christmas. He felt the exact same way he'd always felt about her.

He loved her.

Undoubtedly.

"I'm sorry, Dora," he said. "She's right."

"And so our entire relationship was for nothing," said Fleur, with tears pooling in her eyes. "You blame me for ending something that had no hope of beginning, and yet you destroyed our chance together."

"I loved you, too," spoke Harry, quietly. He heard Fleur's breath hitch. "I promise, for as long as we were together, I loved you too. I know it isn't what you wanted to hear, but I did."

"And yet that love was second to how you felt for her."

Tonks sighed.

"Harry, I thought we were friends," she said. "That's all this has ever been."

Fleur laughed, humourlessly.

"If you are friends, then stop hurting him as you do," she said, pointing away. "Leave. Leave him be. Let him heal."

"No, don't go," said Harry, his voice quiet. "I want you to tell me something," he heaved a sigh. "If things were different. If you weren't an auror and we met, would you love me then?"

"Harry, this isn't a good ide-"

"No, you need to tell me," Harry insisted. "You need to tell me why it is that you don't love me back. _Could_ you have ever loved me back, if things were different?"

Tonks swallowed, her hair white.

"I don't know, Harry!" she exclaimed, her words desperate, a tear falling onto her cheek. "I have no idea! Maybe, maybe in an ideal world, where we're the same age and it wouldn't ruin my career, we _could've_ been together. Or we could've been friends, like we are _right now_. Why can't that be enough?"

For the briefest of moments, her words did not feel as though they were directed at Harry, but at herself too.

Harry's shivered. "Well thank you for caring."

Tonks bristled, her hair turning red. "I _care_ about you Harry," she asserted, her words sounding odd to Harry ears through the pounding headache he had, with holding back the tears in his eyes that threatened to fall and destroy him completely. "I care about you so much. You're my best friend. You are the one person I trust more than anyone in the world. I love being with you. Isn't that enough?"

"Then why do you not love me?" Harry asked, and for a moment, he felt smaller than he'd ever felt before.

Tonks sighed, tears freely falling.

"You are too young for me," said Tonks. Fleur scoffed.

"That isn't true," said Harry, his eyes flashing up, the tears there shining in the light of the castle. "That isn't true and you know it."

"Then why is it, Tonks?" Fleur asked. For a moment, Harry had forgotten she was there. "If you adore being with him, what is it?" Fleur approached Harry, then. "It cannot be for the way that he looks; he is beautiful. Or that he is not clever enough, as he is far more clever than you will ever be. So why?"

Fleur wrapped squeezed Harry's hand, her touch reassuring.

Tonks face was red as tears fell. "Could you leave, please?" she asked of Fleur. Fleur nodded, leaving up the stairs and back to the party, offering a squeeze of Harry's hand before she left.

Silence hung heavily between the two of them.

"I was scared, Harry," Tonks began. She sighed heavily. "I _am_ scared."

"Why?" Harry asked, scarcely believing the words he heard.

Tonks sat down upon the steps of the White Tower, as did Harry.

"Because, Harry," she began, their shoulders knocking against one-another, before she took a breath to settle herself. " Because I've never even thought of loving someone, or being someone else's. I never thought someone could care about me enough for that to happen and the idea that it _would_ happen terrified me. Then you came along, and you're so unbelievably good, and kind, and you made me so happy and I was just so scared of letting myself believe that I could be loved by someone else."

"Then why didn't you just tell me that?" Harry asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Because I'm a coward, and you deserve better than me," she said, her voice tiny. "You deserve better than someone afraid of loving you."

Harry reached down and took hold of her hand, his other hand coming to her chin and raising it so that their eyes met.

"Tonks, you are what I want," he said. "I don't care about anything else. All I've ever wanted is you."

Tonks bit her lip.

"I love you." she said, quietly. "I'm sorry that I was too scared to tell you sooner, and I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry for everything I've done in-between, for all the pain I've caused you by being so scared. I know I don't deserve your love, after all that, but I love you. And you deserve to know, after everything."

Harry looked at Tonks. At the woman he'd loved for as long as he had known her. At her beautiful face. At her eyes, that swirled in infinite beauty, and her hair, that glowed with warmth, and change, and transformation.

She was, and always had been, the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. She was beautiful. She was the only thing he'd ever truly wanted.

And she loved him.

"I love you, too."

Then she kissed him, the soft skin of her fingertips resting against his cheekbone, her soft lips pressing against his.

And he felt as if he had returned home. A home that he could not believe was his.

* * *

They kissed for quite a while after that, too.

* * *

A very long while.

* * *

 **Bet you didn't expect that, did you?**


End file.
